


That Obscure Object

by emmadelosnardos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Therapy, Trauma, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danger was a green pool in an inner courtyard, the wet slide of skin against skin, the risk of being caught. Danger was a needle under the floorboards, opium in the toe of a slipper, the subterfuge of his habit. Danger was a shabby cabbie, even odds, an aneurysm.</p><p>[Warnings for discussion of trauma, abuse, rape, violence.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Orchids and dandelions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChapBook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChapBook/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story about trauma and what it does to people; what it does to this specific person, John Watson. 
> 
> ChapBook gave me a prompt. 'I'd like you to write something about John and Ella and "trust issues".' This story is for her; an essay that wanted to become something more.
> 
> Part psychoanalysis, part fiction. I'm drawing on my knowledge of developmental psychology, psychopathology, psychotherapy, and trauma. 
> 
> ***********

____________________________________________________________________

Oslo, Norway. 1940.

Stockholm, Sweden. 1940 -1944.

London, England. 1945 - present day.

 

Some children scarcely notice uncertainty; hardy and resistant, they thrive wherever they take root. Dandelion-children, they call them in Sweden. (The Swedes  would know something about hardiness, wouldn’t they? -- they with their northern farms, their salt-cured fish, their intimate knowledge of darkness and hunger.) And then there are the wide-eyed ones, the fragile  _orkide-barn_ (orchid children) who blossom only in favourable conditions. These are the ones who become great artists, and great scientists, or drunkards, or melancholics. They are the ones who have the most to give, and the most to lose.

Most environments do not favor orchids. But -- oh -- what an occasion it is when an orchid blooms!

Instead, a dandelion child was born in Oslo one lean spring, scant months after the Germans invaded Norway. (This was rather a poor time for the orchids of the world. Wartime favors the dandelions.) His mother, Anki, was the daughter of a Swedish diplomat. His father was a British consular agent, infelicitously called to London in November of the previous year . Despite this bureaucratic pedigree, her tiny son’s British passport and peerage caused Anki no end of trouble -- police visits, reduced rations, travel bans -- until she bundled Sigur in quilts and escaped with him on a fishing boat bound for Gotenberg. After that, a slow train to Stockholm, to his grandparents’ house, where for five years young Sigur Holmes heard not a word of English from his dear _Mormor_. 

Bombs fell on London, Coventry, Berlin. Sigur ate and slept and walked and talked. He was a laconic, drowsy child who did not cry when his grandparents saw them off from the docks of Gamla Stan a few months after VE day. Sigur liked the the big boat, the uniformed sailors who gave him licorice, the sound of the foghorn. He made friends with the other families and wandered off while Anki spilled her seasickness overboard. They went to live  in London with his father, whom he had never met. In five months he was speaking English as well as the rest and he did not miss the licorice too much. 

A dandelion, Sigur: even-tempered, athletic, adaptable, if not very inspired. Fit for public service, quiet evenings at home, the occasional game of tennis. Domineering, handsome, brilliant, intolerant of difference. Children who grew up in wartime knew that it was not good to stand out too much, no matter how intelligent, no matter how wealthy one was. The nail that stuck out was the one that got the hammer. Difference signalled danger.

Difference also signalled beauty -- those slanted eyes, the pale skin, dark curls -- almost too much beauty for a boy.

‘Those looks are wasted on Sherlock,’ Sigur said when his son was eleven. ‘He should have been born a girl.’ He watched Sherlock watching the other boys, and he fretted. Violeta rehearsed her Ravel and Bartok, and took on more students, and looked after her  orkide-barn,  her youngest son. He showed more promise than she ever had, and that summer she was to play at Ravenna.

Danger was a green pool in an inner courtyard, the wet slide of skin against skin, the risk of being caught. Danger was a needle under the floorboards, opium in the toe of a slipper, the subterfuge of his habit. Danger was a shabby cabbie, even odds, an aneurysm.   

‘Could be dangerous,’ Sherlock texted John.

‘You get off on this,’ John said later, as if there were something wrong with it. (Sigur had thought there was something wrong with it.) ‘You enjoy it.’

‘And I said “dangerous”, and here you are.’

Any life is uncertain, any outcome part fortuitous. But paths are not random, either; childish ways become adult habits, temperament hardens into personality. You can mold a growing sprout to almost any shape, but once the supple green gives way to darker wood around the trellis, the form is shaped. Not fixed -- it can be changed, but it takes time and patience and pain to prune the hedge. Time, or catastrophe, can change the form. A flash of lightning bifurcates the tree; a large branch withers, smaller shoots come into bloom. Without destruction, growth is slow, unwilling.

To John’s surprise, the first bullet out of his gun was not meant for his own occipital lobe. 

What had been done to him, he did to another; his shot hit Hope in the shoulder. Sherlock finished the man off, but still -- it was John’s bullet. Directed outwards, melancholy turned to rage, sorrow into fear. Danger roused him to action. Danger cauterized the wound. Danger was the new order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ChapBook (songstermiscellany), frytha, AfroGeekGoddess, adiprose, eccecorinna, esterbrook, charliebravowhiskey, sherlockscarf, youcantsaymylastname, professorfangirl, roane72, aderyn, and others who commented on my initial blog post on tumblr about John and trust issues.
> 
> Aderyn, there is trauma and repetition here, too!
> 
> You can read [more about dandelion and orchid children here.](http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2009/12/the-science-of-success/7761/%0A)
> 
>  
> 
> (If anyone can tell me how to include a hyperlink in the 'notes' section of AO3, I would be much obliged.)


	2. Pride goeth --

John made beans and toast in the mornings for him and Harry. She was too small to pour the milk, so he made her tea as well, and checked that she had lunch money. Sometimes their mother woke up in time to see them off; she would watch them from the front window and think that it was not fair that every thing beautiful and good should leave her so soon.  

Sherlock had never made his own breakfast until he was released from rehab at age 25. There was no _doméstica_ in London, no lunchroom, no cafeteria. Just a half kitchen in his flat on Montague. Most days, however, Sherlock didn't bother with breakfast. Breakfast was boring.

Sherlock professed to hating rules; John prescribed to them. Neither had it right about themselves. When Sherlock was Away, he made his bed with hospital corners. And John let the bins fill up. 

After Violeta died, Sigur’s rules fit Sherlock as tightly as a corset. Behind the garden shed, where he went to be alone, the cigarettes burned his insides. Sherlock’s lungs were his father’s lungs, held in place by his father’s rules. He let his bicycle rust because his father mentioned that Sherlock would make a good cyclist (he had no such hopes for Mycroft). He would never fully clear his alveolae, never swim the Channel, never win a tennis tournament. Sherlock poisoned his lungs rather than give his father that satisfaction. He only rode a bike again because a case required it of him, but he was far away from England then, and Sigur was dead, and New York ( _Nueva York_ ) was a Spanish city, like Seville, and it somehow seemed different to ride a _bicicleta_ when he called it by that name.

Sherlock learned to be solitary. John learned the burden of dependence.

The more John threw himself into his studies, the prouder his parents were of him. They looked to him when Harry misbehaved, reminded her that if her brother could be a good son, why couldn’t she be a good daughter? John was proof that the Watsons had done something right, at least. But he resented being the evidence of his parents’ success. The success was his, after all – the late nights, the weekends forgone, the spring term holidays in the library. And later, the rotations, the license exams, the commission in the Army. His accomplishments, all of them. Not theirs, not hers (Harry’s). 

Sherlock, on the other hand, made sure that his accomplishments were not the kind to make Sigur proud. His father did not understand chemistry, did not understand his need for silence during those tedious term holidays, when he consulted textbooks and built a makeshift laboratory in the old hay barn. It was easier to tell Sigur that he was working on an experiment than to sit through another dinner party with the Cornish peerage, easier to take on Sarasate and Mendelssohn than to refuse his father’s company just because. Sigur did not seem to notice; was that because Mycroft was there, because Mycroft did the talking and the eating and the sitting so much better than Sherlock? Because Mycroft didn’t scare the dinner table with talk of poisons and decay (‘How macabre Sherlock is getting to be,’ his aunt Gladys had said.), didn’t shock Mormor by explaining what a ‘poofter’ was, just as she was serving the _kransekake_ on Christmas Eve? Because Mycroft didn’t ask for drug money as if it were lunch money?

After that, Sigur mostly left him alone.


	3. In arduis fidelis

Harry was drinking.

Da was dying (emphysema, both lungs).

Mum was – Mum was…

John Watson, of course you knew where to find John: A&E, central London. Appendicitis. Broken leg. Cardiovascular arrest.

It’s trite, almost, to say that a person enters medicine because he wants to heal others, to then heal himself. True, in this case, but it still doesn’t explain _medicine_ for John. Why not teaching, social work, psychology, art? There are many paths to become a healer, and John Watson chose medicine. What might this say about his character?

Medicine is marvelously structured. The muscles and bones, each numbered and named, a perfect, orderly world of flesh and blood. Even disease has its own logic, can be traced to a single or multiple etiologies. John might have become a pathologist, might have spent his days categorizing those threads of distress. But no. There was order there, yes, but not enough chaos to temper it, to make the order desirable, different. The larger task, the one that made his heart beat faster, that pushed him outside of himself and his own mundane sorrows, was to save the dying . Emergency medicine, then. Adrenaline as analgesic, as distraction.

And then again, he might be treating the things most people don’t want to see: the rape victims (yes, the necessary kit, the questioning, _God_ , it was terrible, what these women went through); the undocumented Algerian with hepatitis; the pregnant 13-year-old in premature labour; that boy, blond ( _Focus on the wounds, focus on the bruises, the bandages. Not the hair. God, not the eyes. Where is the bloke with the camera?_ ), just a boy, one more. But.

They say that you choose to work with the patients who upset you the least. Gunshot wounds, then.

Not that he _liked_ the cops, or gang members, or enthusiastic hobby hunters who didn’t know the right way to hold a shotgun. Even the stand-by victims were just middling. So it wasn’t the patients, then. Not exactly, though he did go into medicine because of the people. But when he’d been working for 36 hours straight, it wasn’t empathy that kept him awake. It was fear, sparked by adrenaline. Fear that they’d lose the man on the gurney, the woman torn open by pellet spray, the attempted suicide. Fear that he’d make a mistake, and someone would die on his hands – until the day that someone _did_ die. _That_ death hurt, it shook something deep within him. But it was only a tremor, not an earthquake. He kept the faith.

Because there was always another patient, a chance to do it over again, to _get it right_. And he kept striving, always, to get it right. Because his Da never got it right. Because Harry was an eternal fuck-up. Because his mother was –

He’d save them. He trusted himself to do that much, at least.

The Army wasn’t John’s idea at first. He hadn’t thought much about it, all through his time at Barts, the question of what he’d do when he was done with his residency. But then his football mate, McInerny, spoke to him after practice one day, mentioned his brother, a surgeon in the RAMC. He knew that John was studying to be a doctor, he saw that John was responsible and loyal and strong (despite his size, the football helped). He was the kind of chap who would make England proud.

It was a good idea, had McInerny. After John got through medical school, the Army would train him and house him and _bygodhewasgoingtobeindependentatlast_ , and Da was dying and Harry was making a fuss and he just wanted out, out of the country, out of the family. It was a good idea.

There was plenty for him to do in London. But the Army had other plans for him, and even if there hadn’t been the hint of glory around the title _Army Doctor_ , the Army did other things for him, too. There was order, there, at Sandhurst, in officers’ training. Glorious, glorious order. Shining and silver and starched. The uniforms, the role call, the knowledge of what was right and what was wrong. It was such a relief to give up responsibility, to put down that burden of being the bright star of the Watson family, to get lost in the anonymity of the uniform and the absolute certainty of his purpose.

You see, medicine gave him order, but the Army gave John a purpose. And human beings will stand most any hardship, as long as they have a purpose in their lives.


	4. Tattoos

She told him to write because writing was a way to put the pieces back together.

He did not have the language to say what needed to be said, so it came out in strange phantom pains, written across his body in words he did not understand.

 _Aimaq Arabic Ashkun Azerbaijani Balochi Brahui Darwazi Domari_ and so on and so forth, forty-eight living plus one dead language.

What did it mean if a language was ‘dead’? Silenced, laid to rest, dormant? Or – was a language ‘dead’ because it was unspeakable ?  
The unspeakable renders a language unspoken.

 _Conversion disorder?_ She scribbled on her pad, shielded it with one hand. _PTSD? Known primary and secondary exposure to trauma._

Still he would not speak. He sat there stone-faced, silent, resentful.

‘ _I can’t do this for you_ ,’ she thought.

She wrote to herself, _Early family life. Do trust issues predate trauma? Prior history of abuse?_

‘I’m not saying that you should trust me,’ she said. ‘Most people have good reasons to not trust others.’

He rubbed his leg and didn’t respond.

John Watson, I will remind you, did _not_ have a stable family. Nor was he a dandelion. But he had created a life for himself that worked, found an order that could contain his own confusion. And he had other blessings, as well. He was intelligent, and hardworking, and loyal to a fault. (What faults?) He had youth on his side, which meant the stamina and speed of a young man who was inspired by something greater than himself. (Medicine. England. God.) And he was middle-class, if a bit too solidly so, and White, and European, and a man. So he had these things.

Ella didn’t have these things, so Ella knew what it was like to doubt the world. Ella grew up dark-skinned in England, after all; Ella-the-bella, Ella-Elephant, Ella daughter of a Jamaican engineer-turned-plumber. Yes, Dr Thompson knew what it was like to walk with an unsteady world under her feet, got her sea-legs when most of her friends were learning to crawl. She knew how to slip between the softer island tones and her London speech, crisp as the shirts she wore to grammar school, to walk one line or another, to find the surest foothold. She knew how to judge a face, and tell when it was lying, and see when it was in pain. And she had seen pain before. Oh yes, she had seen pain, and death, and sorrow. These things had never surprised her, but still they hurt. But as they did not surprise her, she could live with life’s uncertainties, because that was what life was – _uncertain_ – and wasn’t it all about finding a place for oneself, in the midst of the unknown?

Ella was very, very good at making a place for herself.

For sure, John had his body – that strong body, that White body, that male body – and his body was his tool as much as his medical training. John was hard and bright and steady, and as he walked he swayed with that particular air that some young men have, when they are at the age when they can do anything, and they own the world. _( Only some men have that right combination at birth, and John had it, that he did, despite the family, despite —)_

He walked with Sandhurst’s springy step, eyes facing forward, and almost managed to miss the start of the war, and the deployment, and what it meant to be an Englishman, abroad, so firmly were his eyes fixed in front—

_Again oh yes again the sun does not set on the British Empire these lands that you have seen before a hundred years before another medical doctor another Watson._

_And as if it weren’t enough the first time, you’ve come to finish off your bloody business._

_But everyone bleeds the same blood, you say, you’re a doctor not a conqueror. You mean no harm. You swore an oath. You carry a gun. ‘Do not shoot. DO NOT SH –’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not a White English male nor a Black woman of Jamaican descent. I am imagining the psyches of John Watson and Ella Thompson as best I can, given my own limitations in perspective. This is a preliminary sketch. I welcome any and all feedback. I am grateful to afrogeekgoddess for some earlier conversations about Ella and to Songstermiscellany for suggesting this topic.


	5. Mise-en-scène

‘Criminals don’t return to the scene of the crime,’ Sherlock told him. ‘That’s urban legend. The first thing a criminal wants to do is cover his tracks, and get away.’

If that was the case, then why couldn’t John seem to leave Afghanistan?

His dreams were full of hourglasses and IEDs; headless nuns and plains of fire; the skulls of donkeys scattered amidst desert flowers.

There was a blindspot, a place that he could not see in his dreams. The edges of his dreamvision were populated by blue spectres that vanished when he turned his gaze on them. He didn’t know if it was that his eyes stopped working (his internal eyes; his eyes in the dream) or if it was because the dream images were fuzzy and indistinct; he didn’t know if the blindness resided in  _him,_ or in the dreamscape. Peripheral visual field defect, likely. In him, then.

Even in his dreams, his injuries were psychosomatic.

John thought that, if he were a criminal, he might circle back to see if he had left anything he shouldn’t have – a glove, a footprint, a strand of hair.

Otherwise, why did he circle back to it in his dreams, to the same sorry scene that hovered just outside his awareness, if it was not because he was to blame?

In his waking hours he thought it was strange, the kinds of dreamthings he’d remember about that place. Not the mess hall, the operating theatre, his rack. Not the smell of the canteen or the taste of the coffee, though he could conjure them up if Mike asked him about details like that. Mike did, sometimes, ask him about details like that. Mike had wanted to serve overseas, back when they were at Barts together, but he knew he wouldn’t pass the medical exam, not with his heart murmur. So he asked John for the mundane details of life in Afghanistan, as if by hearing that the mattresses squeaked and the food tasted like cardboard, he could reconcile himself to his London life.

But I was talking about John, not Mike. Mike is a part of this story – oh, there’s a place in history for the man who introduced John Watson to Sherlock Holmes – but his part comes later.  
John didn’t dream of his best mates, the men and women who had gone through officer training school with him, or the RAMC nurses and techs that he worked with every day.

‘Then what do you dream about?’ Ella asked him.

He would not, could not say at first.

‘Are your nightmares very frightening? Sherlock asked. ‘Your screams woke up Mrs Hudson last night.’

‘ _Obviously_ they are frightening,’ John returned, appropriating one of Sherlock’s favourite words.  _Obviously._ ‘Do you think I’d be shouting in my bed if I were dreaming about bumblebees and parakeets?’

‘The birds and the bees,’ Sherlock said laconically. ‘Interesting choice of words.’

‘Shut up,’ John said. ‘I will  _not_ have you analysing my dreams. I get enough of that already.’

‘Have you had enough of therapy yet?’ Sherlock asked him.

It was uncomfortable that his dreams, which had formerly been the most private part of himself, were now subjected to scrutiny from multiple directions.

 _‘_ ‘Isn’t dream analysis outdated?’ he had wanted to know.

‘Do you have flashbacks?’ Ella had asked in return. She was searching for something, _anything,_ that they could grab on to together, make into a clear image of what had gone wrong. A dream would suffice; so would a flashback, a startle response, an aura, a memory looping without reason. Any or all of this, they would bring to light, give name to, expose like an image on photographic paper until it stood out to them with startling clarity. Then it would lose its hold over him, and he would sleep the blessed sleep of the innocent.

And of course he would resist the process; of course he wouldn’t want to do it. Who wants to poke his finger in an open wound? So there would be this struggle then, between him and her; she would push and he would pull, skip appointments, claim he had forgotten. Ella understood. She had seen this before, expected it, even, would have been surprised if it had gone any other way.

‘No flashbacks. That is – no. I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you _do_ have nightmares?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then we’ll have to start with the dreams.’

‘Great. And next you’ll tell me that I want to kill my father and sleep with my mother.’

‘You didn’t come to me for psychoanalysis, John. You came here because of the nightmares.’

‘I came here because the Army told me to. So I can return to duty.’

His therapist wanted to know the content of his nightmares, wanted him to tell her what he could remember, in the safety of her office, so that by telling the untellable he could reduce his fear. That was thetreatment – not a dream analysis, but a retelling of the dream, a living  _in_ the dream while Ella lived in the dream beside him.  
‘Exposure therapy,’ she called it. He felt exposed, no doubt about that. 

But he would not have trusted Sherlock or anyone else with this, either, and even though he begrudgingly went along with it, he still didn’t know if he could trust Ella to know when it was time to stop. And most of the time, this whole therapy endeavour seemed like it might devolve into a hippie prayer circle where he and Ella would take each other’s hands and sing ‘All you need is love,’ while a slide projector mounted a photographic retrospective on John’s tour in Afghanistan.

As he began to describe the dreams to her, the other details came back, too. He remembered the night he had arrived in Kandahar, how it had rained for the first time in months and his helicopter had been rerouted to a landing pad on higher ground, in case of flash floods. And then, three months later: flowers, delicate desert blooms, spread across valleys and hillsides. A miracle of almost Biblical proportions, he had thought at the time.

He saw them all there: the buildings, the people, the roads, even their books and guns and utensils. He saw it all, how they lived over there. And he’d be back there soon, to finish things off.


	6. The same river, twice

‘You can’t go back,’ Harry had told him. ‘Didn’t they explain it to you? Medical discharge. You can’t practice surgical medicine anymore.’

‘That’s not the only skill I had as a doctor!’ John protested. ‘My arm may not be steady enough for surgery, but I can guide the techs through the procedures. I can manage the operating theatre.’

He did not mention the psychiatric evaluation, before his medical (honourable) discharge. Did not mention the ICD code, how he had spent an afternoon wrapping his head around his new diagnosis, F43.12. Chronic post-traumatic stress disorder. Chronic: on-going, insidious, crept up on him without him noticing, dragged through the days and nights in Afghanistan.

_Secondary exposure to trauma,_ the first RAMC psychiatrist had told him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m trained in emergency medicine. _Obviously_ I’ve been exposed to trauma.’

‘What have you done to prevent burnout? Do you have a self-care routine?’

He told the first psychiatrist that he was a bastard. (‘Hostile towards authority,’ the man wrote on his pad.)

As if John had the luxury of a ‘self-care routine’ when he was operating in the military theatre (the operating theatre – which one was it?). What did that paper-pusher think he should do to relax on base? Take up ping-pong, get a pedicure? There wasn’t time for those kind of things, not in a war zone.

John had avoided assigning F43.12 and its mates, when he could, when he was in that position on the other side of the consulting desk. He had some training in psychiatry, of course; every Army doctor did Enough to know, for example, when a redeployment would push someone over the edge, when sick leave should be mandated, and enough to know when a soldier was malingering. Those were the hardest cases, deciding if a man could go home, when there was a newborn and a sick mother and jesus, did the British Army _really_ need one soldier that much? And what harm would it be, when all was said and done, to give him that medical discharge?

But it was harder to play crazy than many of them thought; the signs weren’t always found in wild gestures or violent outbursts. Usually, if you had enough sense to wonder if you were going batty, you probably weren’t. 

So that was the sign, then? Wanting to go back, thinking he _could_ go back? Did that mean he was insane? It was a paradox: if he was sane he might know it, but then again, if he was well enough to doubt his own reason, that was also a sign of sanity, just as believing that one was sane could mean that you were crazy. The best option seemed to be to take on faith that he was bloody nuts and hope that meant that he was fine, after all.

At least, Sherlock seemed to operate on that assumption, because the longer John knew him, and the more others doubted Sherlock, the more convinced he was that Sherlock had the clearest head in England. And Sherlock had no problem admitting that he was half-crazy. So maybe that meant that John wasn’t crazy, either.

Sick or sane, they’d both go down together.

 

 


	7. Cet obscur objet du désir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expansion of a memory that I wrote into Pax Americana, my longer fic about Sherlock and John in New York City.
> 
> From Ch. 22 of Pax Americana:
> 
> John's thoughts went to that night, in his second month at Baker Street, when he had awoken from a vicious nightmare to find himself enveloped in Sherlock's coltish limbs, his body secured against the mattress by the firm pressure of Sherlock's torso against his back.
> 
>  _He knew how to calm me, then,_ John thought. _And I pushed him away, frightened by his presence in my bedroom. I was wrapped in so many layers, but I had never felt so, so naked in my life. He saw everything. He saw right through me – saw my fear, my desperation, and then my anger and my arousal. I couldn't forgive him for it, and I pushed him off, swore at him, and he ran out of my room. We never spoke about it. Still haven't._

‘ _Pavor nocturnus_ ,’ Sherlock whispered in his ear.

John tried to move, but his legs were tangled in his coverlet and his chest was pinned tight to the bed by Sherlock’s surprisingly solid torso.

‘What are you doing?’ John hissed. ‘Let me go!’ He felt the dampness of his T-shirt against his chest, soaked through, and tried to calm his breath.

‘That’s not what you said a minute ago,’ Sherlock responded.

‘A minute ago I was asleep!’

‘And ten minutes ago you were shouting bloody murder. So stay where you are. I know what I’m doing.’

‘Sherlock—’

‘ _Pavor nocturnus_ ,’ Sherlock continued, as if he hadn’t heard John. John felt the bony press of Sherlock’s hips, felt the other man sink deeply into the hollow in his lower back. ‘Night terrors. Psychiatric condition, often found as a sequela to trauma, or secondary to another disorder.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ John said. He meant to sound sarcastic but, strangely, he found himself relaxing into the mattress as Sherlock continued to press against him.

‘You don’t dream about Afghanistan,’ Sherlock said in a low voice.

‘No?’ John turned his face into the mattress, as if hiding from Sherlock.

‘You’ve – when did this start?’ Sherlock’s voice was low, gentler than usual.

He felt Sherlock’s fingers in his hair, brushing his ear. Sherlock turned John’s face to the side, settling him more comfortably against the mattress. He rubbed his nose against the nape of John’s neck, nestling in behind him.

‘Sherlock—’

Sherlock pulled away, suddenly. John wanted him to stay, remembered something he had not remembered in years.

Harry used to climb into bed with him, when the fighting between their parents got so loud that she couldn’t sleep. She was younger, the baby, and her bedroom was right next to theirs, on the ground floor. But when they got to shouting, she’d creep up into John’s room, away from the noise, and he’d wake up to find her sprawled over him, her child’s body sticky with sweat. He was reminded of that now, and wondered what strange connections his brain must have, to be reminded of Harry when a half-mad detective was still pinning him against the bed.

‘You won’t tell me,’ Sherlock observed. ‘So let me guess.’ He moved to straddle John, just above his buttocks, his knees holding tightly around John’s waist while Sherlock’s own hips were carefully raised above him.

‘I –’ It occurred to John that Sherlock didn’t ever _guess_ , that ‘guess’ was a word that Sherlock didn’t like to use.

‘You’re guessing now, huh? Would you mind getting off of me while you guess–’ John managed to flip himself over, and now looked up at Sherlock, who was still kneeling above him.

‘I don’t know the exact nature of your trauma, John,’ Sherlock said in a slow voice, his eyes gleaming eerily in the light cast by the streetlamps. ‘So that’s why I can only guess. But I have been listening to you these last few months. You cry out in your sleep from time to time.’ He paused and leaned down to put his hands on John’s shoulders. John wriggled beneath him, discomfited by Sherlock’s proximity. ‘But you usually are unintelligible. I could only make out a few words, standing outside your door just now. And they didn’t have anything to do with Afghanistan.’

‘What did I—what did I say?’ John asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. He couldn’t remember these dreams, the ones where the sound of his own screams woke him up. He could only remember the feeling of having done something terribly, utterly wrong, and then waking up as he was now, breathless and sweaty, his heart pounding. There was a blankness in his head when he tried to conjure up an image of the dream, as if his conscious mind were repelled by whatever night time horrors had come to visit.

Sherlock looked him over carefully, as if deciding whether or not to tell him.

‘ _What_ , Sherlock?’ John asked.

‘You said you were sorry,’ Sherlock said. ‘You said “No,” but there’s nothing unusual in that. Not for a nightmare. But these weren’t ordinary nightmares, were they? And you’ve had them before.’

‘Yes,’ John admitted. ‘But how did you know that?’

‘You said your sister’s name,’ Sherlock said. ‘ “ _Not Harry_ ,” you said, and then you screamed.’

‘Screamed?’ John repeated.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. ‘You screamed loud enough to wake Mrs Hudson, and who knows who else.’

‘How do you know that I’ve had them before?’

Sherlock leaned back, uncomfortably pressing down onto John’s pelvis.

‘ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, I might want to have children some day!’ John exclaimed. Sherlock lifted himself up and, at last, rolled off of John. He threw one leg over the edge of the bed but twisted around to keep his eyes on John. He brought his left foot close to his groin and rested his bent knee against the mattress.

‘I have been mistaken on more than one occasion when it comes to your family,’ Sherlock said, as if they were still talking about his guessing game.

‘Relevance, Sherlock?’

‘I wasn’t there,’ Sherlock admitted. He had one hand around his left ankle now, and was absentmindedly stroking the arch of his own foot. John noticed that Sherlock’s feet were bare, elegant and long in the darkness. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened to you. But _pavor nocturnus_ is common enough in childhood. Common after exposure to trauma, too, so that’s why I never thought to ask if you’d had this problem before. Before Afghanistan, I mean.’ He stilled his hand, lifted it from his foot as if he were going to take John’s arm, and then pulled it away. ‘You see? I could so easily have guessed PTSD from war exposure alone, missed the point entirely.’

‘Sherlock—’ John started, then looked away. His breath was coming quickly again, like it had when he had first woken up.

‘But that’s not the whole story, is it?’ Sherlock asked. ‘You had these before, in childhood. But they must have subsided in adolescence; otherwise, you’d never have been able to join the Army. Can’t have a bunkmate shouting in his sleep, now can you? They’d have rumbled you straight away during basic training. So, the night terrors stopped before you were commissioned. Maybe you thought you outgrew them; you wouldn’t be the first adult to do so. Outgrow them, I mean.’

‘Yes,’ John said simply. He felt the brush of Sherlock’s hand against his, just for an instant.

‘May I continue?’ Sherlock asked. John nodded and hummed. ‘They clearly wouldn’t have let you in the Army if you’d had night terrors when you joined. So they began again later. After deployment, correct?’

‘Yes,’ John said, amazed, not sure which part of the question he was responding to. ‘Yes, to all of it.’ He could see Sherlock’s profile, his smug grin as he waited to continue his deduction.

‘You must have a high level of tolerance for violence, though, because you specialised in trauma medicine before you joined the Army, isn’t that right? Almost as if violence were normal for you, expected, even. So much a part of daily life that you’d hardly bat an eye if someone came into the A&E with only a broken femur.’

‘Yes. No. Yes. Sherlock—’ Sherlock reached for John again, and this time he pulled John’s forearm into his lap. He bent his head down to get a closer look at John’s bare arm in the pale light. From elbow to wrist, Sherlock ran his fingers lightly over John’s skin, as if feeling for something, palpating invisible wounds.

‘You thought you were inured to it, to violence and pain. And _that’s_ where you went wrong.’ As if it were an afterthought, he added, ‘Where _I_ went wrong.’ He rubbed his fingers again and again over the same area near John’s elbow until, shocked, John realized what it was that Sherlock was touching. The cigarette burn was old, and certainly not the most prominent of John’s scars. It didn’t surprise him, that Sherlock had noticed it, or that he had remembered its exact location well enough to sound it out. But it did unsettle John that Sherlock would sit there on his bed, close enough that John could feel the heat from his body, and talk to John about trauma and nightmares even as he was feeling out John’s old scars.

‘Sherlock—’ But Sherlock had let him go, and he was on his hands and knees again, hovering over John, his eyes darting from side to side as he examined John’s face.

‘Will you let me _finish_?’ Sherlock asked.

John gulped. He nodded. Sherlock was so close that he could smell his skin, smell a faint trace of sweat.

‘I can _guess_ what happened because I have to know these things about people,’ Sherlock began, speaking quickly while keeping his upper body absolutely still, suspended a foot above John’s chest. ‘I have to know, because when a person is hurt, he’ll either hurt another or he’ll hurt himself. It’s an almost chemical reaction; alchemical, some might say. Violence begets violence. Not that I think you’ll hurt anyone else – you’re too masochistic for that, John. Your night terrors just confirmed that for me. You think you’re to blame. You fault yourself for whatever you saw as a child, whatever you thought you could have prevented, if you had just been old enough, good enough, strong enough, whatever fantasy of omnipotence you had.’

Sherlock stared at him, his mouth close to John’s. He might – would he? –

‘I killed the cabbie,’ John pointed out, turning his face away. His heartbeat had not yet returned to normal after the nightmare, and he could feel the blood throbbing in his temples. John clenched his fists and pushed them into the bed, raising his torso slightly even as he pulled away from Sherlock’s too-close face.

‘Yes, and that proves my point, exactly,’ Sherlock responded. He turned John’s face towards his, the pads of his fingers hot against John’s cheek. ‘You killed him and you feel guilty about it, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it just now. You killed Jefferson Hope, and the fact that he wasn’t a very nice man really had very little to do with it. You killed him because you couldn’t let me kill myself. And your calculus isn’t blind. You took the Hippocratic Oath, but you’ll still value a friend above an enemy. You killed Hope, and you let Soo Lin die to save my life.’

‘You fucker,’ John growled, but he didn’t push Sherlock away. He was angry and he was aroused and he was fascinated, and he would let Sherlock finish this.

‘Others count for you, John, and not just in the abstract. Harry counted, which is why you can’t stand to talk to her now; if you hadn’t been so close to her, you wouldn’t be so devastated by her failure, would you? And I count for you, or you wouldn’t have saved my life over Soo Lin’s, a woman you had just met. You valued my life above hers, and you blame yourself because she died, even though it was an assassin who killed her, not you.’

John began to tremble, closing his eyes against the tears. He covered his face with one hand, ashamed to let Sherlock see him cry. What was it he felt? _Alexithymia,_ Ella had said. _Inability to label one’s emotions._ No, he could label them. Relief. He felt relief, though he didn’t understand it. The trembling in his legs ceased; his stilled his arms and let himself feel the heft of Sherlock’s body against his.

‘I know all about you, John,’ Sherlock continued. John kept his eyes tightly closed; he heard Sherlock’s voice close to his ear. ‘You couldn’t protect Harry, when you were younger, so you strove to become that man, didn’t you? A better man, a stronger man. You studied hard, went to medical school, learned what you had to do to cure a fever, read an X-ray, set bones – I wonder whose bones you saw broken first? – and you joined the Army so you could fight the bad ones, as if the world were that simple. Such that even if you weren’t fighting, you could tell yourself that you were on the right side.’

‘Don’t tell me you don’t do the same,’ John blurted out. ‘You, out there, solving crimes. Helping the police when they’re out of their depths. You’re trying to fix things, too.’ He opened his eyes suddenly, looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked away as if caught.

‘Absolutely, that is what I do,’ Sherlock said, pulling off of John to sit upright again. ‘I’m not saying I don’t. But I have simpler moral decisions to make. The people I work for are already dead.’

‘I don’t believe it’s only about the game for you. You care.’ John was aware that the sweat had cooled on his body; without Sherlock lying over him, he noticed how cold the room was. The window was open and his quilts were on the floor. John shivered.

‘I already told you, it’s _not_ just about the game,’ Sherlock hissed. He turned to swing his legs off of the bed, sitting with his back to John. He was silent for several seconds, then ‘Why do you think I know so much about night terrors? Why do you think I’m here, with you?’ There was a plaintive sound to Sherlock’s voice, a tone that John had not heard before.

‘Please don’t say things you don’t mean,’ John said. ‘I’m not a hypothesis for you to test out.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Sherlock said, turning his head to look at John.

‘Don’t treat me like an experiment,’ John said, gathering the quilts from the floor.

‘This is not an _experiment_.’ Sherlock said, his voice suddenly muted as he turned his head away from John. ‘This is an _intervention_. I thought that was clear.’

‘No, it damn well _wasn’t_ clear, Sherlock. But you have intervened enough as it is. Let me sleep.’ John pulled the covers tight around him.

Sherlock stood and looked him over. 'But next time --' he began.

'Next time you will let me sleep.'

'And the night terrors? They won't wake you?'

'They're mine, and they are my problem to deal with. Not yours.'

‘Are you sure, John?’ Sherlock was posed in the doorway, his outline dark against the light in the corridor. ‘I thought I did rather well with the limp.’ He turned, light illuminating one half of his face, and winked at John before walking out.

 _‘Name’s Sherlock Holmes’,_ John remembered. _He knew about the limp, even then. Knew it was psychosomatic. Knew I'd go with him, too.  
_

Exhausted, he fell back into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sleep terror disorder (pavor nocturnus) is characterized by abrupt awakenings from sleep, usually beginning with a panicky scream of cry, and lasting about ten minutes. The individual experiences intense anxiety and symptoms of autonomic arousal such as sweating, rapid breathing, flushing of the skin, and pupil dilation. In children, the disorder usually begins between ages 4 and 12 and resolves spontaneously in adolescence. In adults it begins between ages 20 and 30 and tends to become chronic."
> 
> PDM Task Force (2006). _Psychodynamic Diagnostic Manual._ S307: Psychogenic Sleep Disorders. p. 123.


	8. Viol--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays [Vivaldi's Concerto for Violin and Organ](http://emmadelosnardos.tumblr.com/post/31243713755/that-obscure-object-now-updated-on-ao3-chapter-8).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'So the two men entwined and wrestled with each other, working nearer and nearer. Both were white and clear, but Gerald flushed smart red where he was touched, and Birkin remained white and tense. He seemed to penetrate into Gerald’s more solid, more diffuse bulk, to interfuse his body through the body of the other, as if to bring it subtly into subjection, always seizing with some rapid necromantic fore-knowledge every motion of the other flesh, converting and counteracting it, playing upon the limbs and trunk of Gerald like some hard wind. It was as if Birkin’s whole physical intelligence interpenetrated into Gerald’s body, as if his fine, sublimated energy entered into the flesh of the fuller man, like some potency, casting a fine net, a prison, through the muscles into the very depths of Gerald’s physical being.'
> 
> D.H. Lawrence, _Women in Love._

One Thursday evening, when there wasn’t a case, Sherlock left the flat at a quarter-past eight carrying a large, black leather bag. He rummaged through the refrigerator on his way out, grabbed a deli sandwich that John had left there the day before, and called his farewells out to John before John had even noticed that Sherlock had put on his coat.

He returned sometime before midnight, his hair slightly rumpled and – suspiciously – smelling of shampoo and aftershave. John ran into him in the stairwell and held up his toothbrush in greeting.

‘I’m off to bed,’ John said.

‘So it appears,’ Sherlock replied. They stared at each other, John in his pyjamas and Sherlock with his coat still buttoned up to his chin. John cleared his throat.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked. He rubbed the back of his head. His hair was growing longer; it was time for it to be cut.

‘Out,’ Sherlock said, then turned and went into his bedroom.

****

John spotted the bruises on Sherlock’s arm the following Monday night.

He came upstairs to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen, staring disconsolately at the violin on the kitchen table. Absentmindedly, as John watched, Sherlock rolled up his left shirtsleeve and tucked the instrument up under his chin. His right hand grabbed the bow and the tuning fork while his left reached under the violin and then up and around to grasp at the fine tuners, in a motion that would have been awkward if it had not been so practiced. He drew the bow across the A string, then pulled it away and struck the tuning fork against the edge of the table.

‘What are you doing?’ John asked.

‘Shh,’ Sherlock hissed. He seized the tuning fork and brought its round end to rest against the top of the instrument. The violin buzzed and hummed with the note.

‘Still sharp,’ Sherlock proclaimed. ‘Don’t speak, John,’ he added. He played the open string again, twisting his left hand under the instrument and turning, turning at the little knob at the base of the string as he continued to stroke the bow over the string. He banged the tuning fork against the table another time, set it against the instrument, and the sound reverberated more clearly than it had before. Sherlock nodded and set the violin down on the table.

‘I prefer a 415A when I’m playing Vivaldi,’ he explained. Then, ‘Pass me the other bow, John, the one in the case. You’ll observe the difference in the curvature of the wood, the absence of the set-in frog on the Baroque bow. Produces a lighter sound, doesn’t sustain the note as long as a modern bow, but it’s more in keeping with the time period.’

‘I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,’ John said. ‘But would you mind telling me how you got those bruises?’ He used the bow to point at Sherlock’s bare forearm, enjoying the swishing noise it made as it cut through the air.

‘Don’t use it as a pointer, you idiot,’ Sherlock snapped, stepping forward to snatch the bow from John. ‘That bow was made especially for me by a luthier in Brazil; aged pernambuco wood of the sort you can’t get anymore. It’s irreplaceable.’

‘I don’t suppose you want to tell me how you got those bruises, then?’ Sherlock stared blankly at him. ‘The ones on your arm,’ John reminded him.

‘Not particularly, no,’ Sherlock said, turning away and setting the violin down on the table. It only took one step for John to draw closer and grab Sherlock’s other sleeve, the one that was still buttoned at the wrist. Under the fabric, John felt a stiffening in Sherlock’s muscles, a slight jerk backwards in response, but Sherlock did not pull away. Instead, he leaned one hip against the table and watched as John pushed the buttons through their buttonholes, then neatly folded the fabric up until he had bared Sherlock’s other arm to the elbow. Then he pulled Sherlock’s wrists together in front of him, exposing the underside of each forearm to the bright kitchen light. John made a clicking sound, frowning down at Sherlock’s arms.

‘What can you tell me about them, John?’ Sherlock asked, gnawing at his lower lip.

John glanced up at him. ‘Bruises are three or four days old. Judging by the colouring. Mottled yellow around the edges, purple centre.’

‘Lovely, John,’ Sherlock smirked, sarcastic. John’s fingers were warm and dry against his wrists. ‘And the cause of injury?’

‘You were struck hard, I think. Not grasped,’ John said, running a finger gently up the underside of Sherlock’s arm. He motioned for Sherlock to turn his arm over. ‘A few lighter bruises on this side,’ he continued. ‘But the bruises are larger than what you would find from someone’s fingers, if someone had been grabbing you. And the bruises don’t match up from one side to another the way they would if someone’s hand had grabbed you. So you weren’t grabbed. You were struck.’

‘Nearly so,’ Sherlock said, his mouth twitching into a smile despite his best effort.

‘Nearly so?’ John asked, looking up at Sherlock. He turned his attention back to Sherlock arm, touching a large bruise that had formed near the elbow. ‘You were fighting,’ he stated calmly. ‘Bare-fisted, I’d say.’

‘True,’ Sherlock agreed. ‘But how do you know that?’

‘Do you want me to tell you or to show you?’ John asked.

Sherlock blinked at him. ‘ _Would_ you show me? I had wondered…’

John looked at the table, noticed how close the violin was to the edge, and decided against it.

‘Not in here, Sherlock.’

‘Shall we take it outside, then?’

And then Sherlock was twisting out of his grasp, and coming towards him, forcing John to take a step backward.

‘Not _here,_ I said,’ John repeated. He turned and walked into the living room, rolling up his own sleeves as Sherlock followed him. John turned around, planted his legs wide, his right leg slightly in front of the right, and assumed a defensive stance.

‘I’m going to come at you,’ Sherlock said slowly. ‘And you are going to block my punch with your forearms. Not with your hands. With your forearms. Like this.’ He loosely clenched his fists and lifted his bent arms upwards, one to protect his face and the other for his chest. ‘So you see, if I do this, a right spear hand to your neck’ – he practiced the movement in the space between them, bringing the outside edge of his hand close to John’s neck, not quite touching – ‘you’ll lift your left hand, like that, yes, block my strike with your forearm, it’s hard enough to take a blow. Good.’ Sherlock stepped back and looked at John. ‘Or we can try another one. Front punch to the solar plexus. Move your left arm down, yes, like that, then sweep it across, push my punch out of the way with your arm. And if I were really trying, your forearm would hit mine, like this—’ Sherlock threw his weight forward as he pressed his forearm against John’s, and John pushed back at him, bringing his own weight against Sherlock’s as their arms met in front of them, a cross of muscle and bone and hair.

John felt his breath come more quickly, and tried to stifle it back, to breathe through his nose so that Sherlock would not hear him. But they were so close, now, close enough that if he pressed just a little harder, and if Sherlock let him press and fell into him, perhaps, then they might come to an understanding. They might end up on the floor, hips against chest, hands over mouths and fingers ripping at ears and elbows, rolling up and down the length of the room, now Sherlock on top, now John, rolling until Sherlock was under him, again – and John had to admit that he quite liked the thought of Sherlock resisting the fight, of not going down quietly; and so he made it happen.

Before Sherlock realized that John was coming forward, _too_ far forward, was about to step on his toes and really he should get out of the way – before he had time to think any of this, John had already hooked his ankle around Sherlock’s and, enjoying the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, helped him to the ground.

‘Soldier, remember?’ John said, not bothering that his voice caught in his throat, his breathing heavy and erratic. ‘But then you knew that, didn’t you?’ Sherlock had fallen on his side, his back and chest pinned tight by John’s knees. With another swift motion John shifted his weight and pounded Sherlock’s chest against the floor. He kept his legs firmly around Sherlock’s torso, and now Sherlock was facedown, and John had pinned Sherlock’s arms behind his back with one hand while the other pushed his beautiful white face into the floor, and by _God,_ Sherlock would call uncle if it was the last thing John ever made him do, cry uncle while John was driving his knee into Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock was crying out something that sounded like ‘John,’ and not ‘stop’ and not ‘uncle,’ either; but really, it was so, so much better to hear his own name, to hear Sherlock repeat ‘John John John’ in that particular, helpless tone of voice, almost unrecognizable in its urgency. But still John pressed, he _would_ press until Sherlock told him to stop. Strangely, Sherlock continued to say John’s name, and now they both were panting, and John brought one elbow down against Sherlock’s spine, traced the lumbar vertebrae, dug deep into the muscles of Sherlock’s lower back until something wrong righted itself with a crack and a shake, and Sherlock gasped out in relief, thinking _so that was what needed to be done, L1 or L2, and John is a doctor, after all –_ and asked him at last, to stop, to stop for Godssake John _stop_.

He stopped.

And yet – and yet, when John lifted himself up and began to draw away from Sherlock, mumbling something that sounded like an apology, Sherlock righted himself, flipped around so that he was on his back and looked up fixedly at John, who couldn’t take his eyes away from Sherlock, either, couldn’t be embarrassed that he was sitting on top of his flatmate, not when Sherlock had said his name in just that tone of voice; not when he could feel the heave of Sherlock’s diaphragm under his groin, almost as if he were rising up to meet John – almost as if he trembled in desire, and not in relief –

John brought his fingers down to cup Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as he moved his eyes up and down Sherlock’s face, watching for the anger to break forth, or the shame. ‘Did I – did I hurt you?’

‘Of _course_ not!’ Sherlock snapped. ‘Misaligned vertebra, that’s all. Saved me a trip to the doctor.’

‘I _am_ a doctor,’ John said, redundantly.

They stared at each other – and _how_ John wanted to kiss him, and how _frightened_ he was at that thought, that this might be the moment, and it wasn’t how he had expected it, though he would have been hard-pressed to say _what_ he should have expected, from Sherlock.

‘You needn’t bother,’ Sherlock said. ‘You really. Needn’t. Bother.’

John sat back on his heels. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘You surely can’t be serious?’ Sherlock turned his head away, would not look at John. ‘You know who I am. _What_ I am.’

‘Are we talking about the same thing?’ John asked. ‘Are we talking about you and—’

‘If you have to ask me that question--’ Sherlock began.

‘Never mind,’ John interrupted. ‘Forget it.’ He ran his hands through his hair and thought, again, that it was time for him to get a haircut.

‘If you’ll pass me my violin, John,’ Sherlock said from the floor. ‘I’ll play you the Vivaldi I’ve been working on.’

John extended his hand and Sherlock grabbed it, pulling himself upright. His shirt had come half out of his trousers, and his hair was dishevelled and still smelling of shampoo, and when he reached for the violin and took the bow from John, John had to turn his head away so that Sherlock would not see his disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paintings by Thomas Eakins. _The Wrestlers_ and _Violinist._


	9. Good material

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I am inserting this chapter in before a chapter I previously published, Re-union. I wrote them in this order and think that they make better sense like this, with 'Good material' coming before 'Re-union.' My apologies for those who already knew 'Re-union' as chapter 9.
> 
> Returning to a format I know and love, with different protagonists.

‘I think Sherlock is flirting with me,’ John said to Ella, one day in session.

‘Oh?’ Still she wouldn’t say what she thought, and sometimes it made John want to pull out his hair.

‘Yes,’ he said begrudgingly.

‘What makes you think that?’ she prodded. His eye caught on the gold chain around her neck. She was rubbing it between her fingers, the gold bright against her skin.

‘He – I – I can’t explain why, exactly. He does strange things. Then again, when does Sherlock _not_ do strange things? He does strange things, like – like…For example, I know you want to hear an example. For example, he came into my room the other night. Not for the reason you think. Or maybe – I don’t know. I was having a nightmare.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Yes, and before you ask me what it was about, it was about my _mother –_ who else? –so now you can go ahead and analyse me all you want.’

‘He came into your room,’ Ella said, calmly. They were getting used to each other, now. Today was a good session; John was talking.

‘And he bloody _sat_ on me!’ He shook his head. ‘I know, it sounds strange, because it _was_ strange. I woke up with the skinny git all over me.’ He paused. ‘Not in that way. Or maybe it was. I don’t know.’ He rubbed his forehead, slid his hand down his face. ‘But it made me think – that there may have been a reason he was in my room. Other than the nightmares. He said he’d heard me shouting – night terrors.’

‘I’m not sure I understand – this was flirting?’ Ella wrinkled her nose, confused.

‘Not ordinary flirting. But there’s something there. I can’t – he – he’s always in my space, you know? No sense of personal boundaries. Steals my toothbrush if he can’t find his own, that kind of thing. And he touches me. He’s taken to pouncing on me in the hallway, when I come home from the clinic. Shared me shitless the first time he did it; almost gave me another panic attack.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘I realized it was Sherlock and grabbed him by the ears. The dick.’

Ella laughed, despite herself. The doctor could tell a good story when he felt like it.

‘You boxed his ears,’ she said. ‘You didn’t write about _that_ in your blog.’

‘I don’t write about every bloody thingin my blog,’ he said. ‘Not when I know that Sherlock is reading it. Especially the parts about him. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d memorized whole paragraphs. Not surprised at all.’

‘You wouldn’t be?’ She was smiling, now, teasing him.

‘Look, he gives me good material,’ he said, sitting back in his seat. He cracked his knuckles, one by one.

‘Good material?’ She took off her glasses and stared at him.

He wondered if she was supposed to tease him, like that, and if she was supposed to be reading his blog, anyway. Wasn’t there something about patient confidentiality? He forgot what the rules were; he wasn’t a psychiatrist, he had never talked with his patients about the things that he talked about with Ella. But Ella was smiling, urging him on, and it became easier to talk about Sherlock when she was laughing with him and fiddling with her necklace and rubbing one ankle against the other, like she was now. She almost seemed – dare he say it? – _human._

‘The blog is mostly about him,’ he conceded. ‘But that’s because he is a lot more interesting than I am.’

‘You still think that?’ she asked. It had been months since he had said anything so self-disparaging.

‘--Think that Sherlock is more interesting than I am? Sure. Yes. That’s why I write about him.’ He covered his face with his hand again and whistled. ‘I’m a bit bonkers for him, aren’t I?’

‘It appears that way,’ she said, and then: ‘Is this why you haven’t mentioned him the last few weeks?’

‘I haven’t mentioned him?’ John repeated, surprised.

‘You’ve talked about your shoulder, and how your limp isn’t bothering you anymore, and you told me all about Harry and Clara – and you even started to tell me about your _mother_ –’ She tapped her hands on her chair for emphasis.

‘Right,’ John said, tersely. It was a bit of a joke between them, now, but it hadn’t been at first. Now she could tease him about so many things; about how he didn’t talk about his mother, about how much he talked about Sherlock, about how much he _didn’t_ talk about Sherlock…

‘Which I appreciated hearing about, by the way,’ Ella said.

‘ ’Course you did,’ he said bluntly. ‘And since you’ll ask me anyway, I’ll go ahead and tell you that you’re right. I was – thinking things through?’

‘You sound doubtful.’

‘It’s just that – _Sherlock_? To have a pash for him, of all people?’  

‘And why not him?’ She tried to keep a straight face, but John laughed and she joined in.

‘Because it’s Sherlock. And he’s a complete nutter, and he’s my flatmate, and there are just so many reasons why – no! It’s just not on.’

‘You’re smiling, John.’

‘I’m smiling because this is crazy,’ he said, hanging his head. ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’

‘You tell me,’ she said, not answering. ‘You haven’t said anything about him – that is – about him being a man. Does that play a role in any of this?’

‘In any of what?’ He looked up at her.

‘In your vacillations.’

‘The fact that Sherlock is a man? I thought I told you I liked men, too.’

‘You did,’ she said gently. ‘And then you came in here expressing your frustration that other people assumed you were together.’

‘Oh.’

‘And every person you’ve dated this year has been a woman.’ She looked at him over her bifocals. ‘Unless you haven’t told me something.’

‘No, there’s no one…I haven’t dated blokes in a while,’ he admitted. ‘Interesting. You’ll probably tell me it’s because I’ve been in love with Sherlock this whole time.’

‘Would I say that?’ she asked.

‘No, but you’d think it,’ he said. ‘You probably thought it from the first time I – ’

Ella laughed, again. ‘You attribute greater powers to me than I have,’ she said.

‘You knew there was something about my mother,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re almost as bad as Sherlock.’

‘Not a hard thing to figure out,’ she said, ‘when she was the only one you didn’t want me to ask about. And that’s all I knew. That she was your mother, and that you didn’t want to talk about her. Not why. Just like I’m not sure what it is about Sherlock that you don’t want to talk about, now. Why you’re turning red in the face, why you won’t meet my eyes when you talk about him. Is it embarrassing to you, John?’

‘It’s embarrassing that it took me this long to realise it,’ he said. ‘And – yeah, it _is_ embarrassing.’

‘But you said you thought he was flirting with you.’

‘So?’

‘So why would you be embarrassed, if he is the one flirting with _you_?’

John sat back and scratched his chin.

‘Is he? That’s what I not certain about.’ He paused. ‘Sherlock could be – well, _you_ know him.’

‘I don’t, actually,’ Ella pointed out.

‘Right, so you’ve never met him. But you know how he is.’

She obstinately raised an eyebrow at him.

‘That thing you’re doing,’ John said. ‘He does that too.’

‘What thing?’

‘Raising your eyebrow at me. Deducing things about me.’

‘You’re getting off topic, John. What is Sherlock like?’

John sighed. ‘Unpredictable.’

‘And?’

‘Manipulative.’

‘And?’

‘Tall.’ John giggled.

‘Tall?’ Ella asked.

‘Haven’t I mentioned that? Yes, he’s – tall. And – god!’ He shook his head. ‘God god _god_.’

‘You don’t talk about him much, do you?’ she asked, then realized her mistake.

‘I talk about him _all the fucking time_. That’s why I can’t escape the—’

‘I meant – you don’t get the chance to talk about him _this_ way.’

‘What way?’ He liked turning the tables on her, asking her to explain herself.

‘Do you want to know what I think?’ She set aside her glasses, leaned forward to put her elbows on her knees, and stared at him. John swallowed quickly.

‘Uh—’ he began. ‘Are you actually going to tell me?’

‘I think it’s good you’re talking about this with me. I think you’re nervous because you’ve been holding this in, and you don’t quite know how to talk about it yet. Which is quite normal, you know, when you’re just coming to terms with your feelings about someone else.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel relieved?’ John asked. ‘That you think I’m _normal?_ ’

‘If you like,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing “normal” about Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Maybe not.’ She sat back up. ‘But what you’re describing _is_ pretty normal; what’s happening to you, at least.’

‘Which is?’

‘Falling in love. Feeling nervous talking about it. Doubting yourself, doubting the wisdom of your choice. Though you still haven’t said much about why this is a bad idea.’

‘It isn’t obvious to you?’ John asked in a high voice.

‘I’d like to hear what you think,’ she reminded him, gently.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything about it,’ he moaned, covering his face.

‘John,’ she said, ‘you don’t _have_ to talk about Sherlock. But you _did_ bring it up, that you think Sherlock is flirting with you.’

‘That’s the problem. I don’t _know_ that. And like I said, it’s not really “flirting”. It’s just things like coming into my room at night and staring at me and saying strange things – well, stranger than usual – and suddenly deciding to test me on my combat training. Things like that. Like he wants to touch me.’

‘Hmm.’ She glanced at the clock, quickly. ‘So it’s the not-knowing that bothers you?’

‘What?’

‘Not knowing what he’s doing, how he feels?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, we can’t really do much about Sherlock, can we?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ He looked at his watch.

‘I mean, he’s not here. But you are. And the most we can do is figure out what John wants. Because that still isn’t clear to me. What is it that _you_ want out of all this; out of _him._ ’

He whistled softly. ‘Wish I could tell you,’ he said. ‘Next time?’ He forced a small smile.

‘Next time, then.’ She stood and led him to the door, opening it for him. ‘Good-bye, John.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit more daring with the British slang than usual, so feel free to correct me if there's something wrong, oh Britons!


	10. Re-union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oct. 15: Please note that I have inserted a new chapter before this one. Chronologically it makes more sense to have John meet with Ella before Harry comes to call.

14:23

john, call me!!! – H.

15:52

i have news….;)

16:00

Pick up ur phone or im going act like u dont want to know.

16:14

im coming over.

_____________________________________________________________

As John climbed the stairs to their flat that evening after work, he heard Harry’s voice, light and appeasing. She was talking to Sherlock, then. So Sherlock would be pleased; he had wanted to meet Harry.

‘John!’ Harry said, with exaggerated pleasure. ‘You didn’t tell me your roommate was so charming!’

‘You must not remember the first time he posted about me on his blog,’ Sherlock drawled, smiling up at John. He was slouched in the Corbusier, in grey dress trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a salmon-coloured cravat. ‘ _“Strangely likeable,”_ he called me, and _“charming.”_ I wonder what he’d say about me _now._ ’ Sherlock’s smile grew sultry, private.

‘Are you going out tonight?’ John asked, business-like, nodding towards Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to push himself out of the chair.

‘Apparently,’ Sherlock said, tucking the back of his shirt into his trousers. ‘How do I look?’ He spun around and winked at Harry.

‘Don’t leave on my account,’ Harry said.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t leave on _your_ account, Harriet,’ Sherlock said. ‘I have a previous engagement. Now, you must excuse me.’ He smiled at her with his mouth and not his eyes, the kind of smile that made John want to take a step backwards and blink a few times. It wasn’t right, seeing Sherlock like this, with Harry.

‘A case?’ John asked.

‘Of sorts,’ Sherlock said. He retrieved his coat from the rack and slung it casually over his shoulder. ‘A pleasure to meet you at last, Harriet.’ That smile, again. He nodded good-bye to his flatmate. ‘ _John_.’ Then Sherlock was out the door, his footsteps fading as he descended the stairs. They heard the door slam below, and John was alone with Harry.

‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon,’ Harry said.

John put down his satchel and removed his jacket. ‘You sent me texts,’ he said calmly. ‘I can’t answer texts when I’m at work.’

‘That’s not what Sherlock said,’ Harry replied. ‘You answer his texts.’

‘Would you like some tea?’ John asked, heading towards the kitchen before she could answer, before she could head him off.

‘Tea?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sober, John. So tea it is. Unless you have diet soda.’

‘Nope. Tea it will have to be,’ he said firmly.

Harry followed him into the kitchen. She looked better than he had seen her in several months; her face had filled out a bit, and she was dressed smartly.

‘Your hair –’ John started.

‘I highlighted it,’ Harry chattered. ‘And got a fringe. D’you like it?’

‘You’ve always been a blonde,’ he said. She frowned. ‘But I like it. It – suits you. It’s nice, like that.’

‘My roots get dark over the winter,’ she complained. ‘I bet your hair was gorgeous when you were in Afghanistan. All that sun. You lucky arse.’

He remembered his short haircut, the difficulty he had cleaning his hair and ears and eyes of dust. He didn’t care much about the colour of his hair, then or now. For the first time, the war felt like it was very far away.

‘Your flatmate’s quite plummy, isn’t he?’ Harry asked.

John signalled for her to sit as he put the teakettle on. ‘Just – uh, push some of that stuff over to the other side, it’s Sherlock’s,’ he said. She cleared a spot for them and kept talking.

‘He said he knew it was me from my voice,’ she said. ‘How would he know what my voice sounds like?’

John froze. ‘Did you ask him how he knew it?’

Harry tossed her hair over her shoulder. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Because he probably hacked into my voicemail,’ John said. ‘Again. That rotter.’

‘Oooh,’ she said in a confidential tone. ‘He must be exciting to live with.’ John began to wash the dishes in the sink, his back turned towards her. She raised her voice so he could hear her over the din of china and water. ‘But you’re getting along with him all right, aren’t you?’

‘Fine,’ he said loudly.  

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how much is the rent here?’ He turned around and wiped his hands on his trousers. She was looking up at him, her green eyes even larger than he remembered, lined in kohl.

‘The landlady gives Sherlock a good deal on the place,’ John responded, calmly. ‘He solved a case for her, once.’ He _would_ be calm with Harry, no matter how large her eyes grew, no matter how sweetly or cruelly she spoke to him. _There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead…_ She didn’t have curls – her hair was as straight as his – but apart from that, the rhyme might as well have described Harriet Watson.

‘That’s nice for you, isn’t it?’ she asked. And then, suddenly, ‘He’s going on a date.’

‘Who?’ John asked, confused.

‘Sherlock,’ she said. _And when she was good, she was very, very good; and when she was bad, she was horrid…_

‘I sincerely doubt that,’ he said. The kettle was whistling and he rushed back to the stove. If only he knew where Sherlock had stowed the tea… ‘Give me a second,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘So what’s it like living with the great detective?’ she asked him, once he had cleared off some space for himself next to her.

He forced a smile. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You know – keeps me on my toes.’

She cocked her head. ‘Fit bloke,’ she said.

‘Meaning?’ He looked inquisitively at her.

‘Whatever you want it to mean,’ she said.

‘You said you had some news?’ John was too eager with his tea and he scalded his tongue.

‘I’ve met someone,’ Harry said, with a tone of great confidentiality.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s – great? I think? What’s her name?’

‘It’s a man, John.’

His teacup rattled as he set it in its saucer.

‘A _man_?’

‘Yes,’ she said, smugly. ‘First time in ten years.’

‘Wait – you didn’t tell me you’d – you mean, you’ve been with men _before_ this?’

‘Don’t be so narrow-minded, John. You’re not the only one in the family who can try it both ways, you know.’

‘Harry.’

‘John. I’ve surprised you, haven’t I?’

‘You make it sound like I’m having my cake and eating it too. It doesn’t work that way, you know,’ he said. ‘It’s not that easy.’

‘All I know is that I’m having a _fantastic_ time, John. It’s not that I missed anything before, but I’m discovering there’s something quite nice about cock, too. In its own way.’

John let out a groan. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,’ he said. ‘You’re _gay,_ Harry. You’ve always said men were disgusting…You _hate_ cocks. You think they’re – oh what was it you called them? _“Useless appendages”_ ?’

‘I fell in love with Jared, not with his penis, John. You of all people should know that.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ he asked, irritated.

‘I thought you would be more supportive,’ she pouted. ‘I thought you’d understand.’

He took a deep breath.

‘Harry, excuse me. I’m sorry. You’re right. I – I reacted badly. I should have let you tell me everything before interrupting you.’

‘Yes, you did. I wanted to be able to share this with you. You should have been happy for me. I didn’t think you’re react like this – like – like –’

‘Harry, I’m sorry,’ John said contritely. ‘I’m really sorry. That was shitty of me.’ There were footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Hudson?

‘John!’ cried a familiar voice, decidedly _not_ Mrs Hudson’s. ‘I need you to come with me. Right now.’ Sherlock paused at the entrance to the kitchen, looking at Harry. ‘ _She_ has to stay here,’ he said, back to his usual blunt self. His hands went to his neck as he quickly unknotted the cravat and threw it down on the table. ‘Are you coming, John?’

John turned to Harry. ‘You said he had a date,’ he said to her.

Sherlock frowned at them both. ‘We don’t have time for this. There’s a body at the morgue. I need your medical expertise, John.’

‘Date must have been called off,’ Harry said smoothly, rising from the table. ‘I _told_ you he was going on a date, John. He didn’t deny it, so it must have been cancelled.’

‘John?’ Sherlock said with irritation. ‘ _Come_.’

‘John’s busy tonight,’ Harry told him. ‘We’re going out.’

‘We are?’ John asked, surprised. Then, ‘No, we’re not. We’re really not.’

‘John,’ Harry said in her most winning tone. ‘I finally track you down and you’re going to spend the night at the _morgue_?’

‘Yes, he _is,_ ’ Sherlock snapped. His eyes were dark, radiant. He was alight with a case, John knew; impatient and manic, strung high on the possibility of murder _._ ‘I’m very sorry to inform you, but John is busy tonight.’

‘Wait – wait a second,’ John said, turning first to Sherlock, then to Harry. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything yet.’

‘Molly won’t be happy about letting me in the morgue by myself, John. You know what she said last time. You have to be there.’ Sherlock glanced around the table, picked up a teacup and drank it dry.

‘Oy!’ Harry complained. ‘That was _my_ tea, you know!’

‘Oh – sorry,’ Sherlock said, insincerely.

‘You know, Sherlock,’ John said. ‘It really wouldn’t be an issue if you’d stop stealing – ’ he coughed meaningfully. ‘—You-know-what from the morgue,’ he muttered, looking at Harry.

‘I don’t _steal,_ ’ Sherlock said. ‘I _borrow._ Or I would, if you didn’t insist on throwing out my samples.’ He glared at John.

‘What samples?’ Harry asked. ‘Can I come with you and see? I’ve never been in a morgue.’

‘No, you can’t,’ John said quickly. She frowned and he apologized. ‘It’s just – _no._ We’re not even technically supposed to be there. It’s just that the pathologist has a crush on Sherlock and lets him in.’

‘You’re a consultant at Barts now,’ Sherlock said, avoiding Harry. ‘That’s why I need you to come with me. I need to have a consultant with me.’

‘I thought you were a consulting detective,’ Harry said.

‘Not that kind of consultant,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘A physician consultant. Don’t you know anything about medicine?’

‘I’m just a locum consultant,’ John interrupted, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t say anything else. ‘A formality more than anything, so I can refer my patients to Barts,’ he explained to Harry. ‘Mike set it up for me.’

‘Who’s Mike?’ Harry asked. ‘Is he the bloke at the morgue?’

‘Him?’ John laughed. ‘No, _Molly_ is the pathologist who works in the morgue. Mike’s a lecturer in trauma medicine.’

‘Oh,’ Harry said, smoothing her hands over her blouse. She had neat, red nails.

‘Don’t you read your brother’s blog?’ Sherlock asked.

Harry looked up at him from the stool. Her eyes were very, very large, and if John hadn’t known better, he would have suspected her of batting her eyelashes at Sherlock. Then again, maybe she was.

‘I _love_ John’s blog,’ Harry said. ‘He’s always been such a good writer.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘You clearly _haven’t_ read his blog,’ he said. ‘Don’t pretend you have.’

‘I _have_ ,’ Harry said.

‘So, what is it, then?’ Sherlock asked. He leaned forward, bracing his arms against the table, bringing his face close to hers. John watched, fascinated and a little fearful.

‘What is what?’ Harry asked.

‘Do you read his blog when you’re drinking?’ Sherlock continued. ‘Is that why you can’t remember what he’s written? Mike Stamford is the man who introduced us; he knew we were both looking for flatmates. Molly, a female pathologist, is the one who works in the morgue. Listen, I know you read John’s blog – it was hyperbole to ask you if you’ve read it, of course you read it if you leave comments on it. But you don’t _remember_ what you read, do you?’

‘What—’ John began. He didn’t understand what Sherlock was getting at.

‘So either you read it drunk,’ Sherlock went on. ‘Or your short-term memory is shot from extensive alcohol use. A third possibility: you don’t pay much attention to what John writes, anyway. You’re too distracted with your own life. So which is it? Drunken blogging, Korsakoff’s syndrome, or narcissism?’

‘Sherlock!’ John said.

‘Fuck off,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been sober for almost fifty days.’

‘Harry, ignore everything he said to you,’ John said. But Harry had begun to cry.

‘Fifty days when you didn’t bother to get in touch with John or read his blog, then,’ Sherlock said.

‘What does that have to do with the morgue?’ Harry asked. Then, to John: ‘I _knew_ you didn’t want to spend time with me. And I was so, _so_ happy to be able to share this with you tonight. When are we going to get a chance to talk? You’ve been here nearly nine months and this is the first time you’ve even invited me—’

‘Harry—’ John began.

‘Don’t bother answering her, John,’ Sherlock commanded. ‘It’s just a ploy to get you to stay with her. Harry – he didn’t invite you. You invited yourself, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘I got in touch with him because he hasn’t called me, written to me, _anything,_ in months.’

‘Last time I did,’ John said quickly, ‘You told me you needed time to yourself. You told me you were going sober and didn’t want to see me during withdrawal. I respected that.’

‘You _do_ this to him,’ Sherlock said slowly, turning to look at Harry. ‘You get in touch with John when _you_ want to. Always on your own terms. Am I right?’

‘Sherlock—’ But John’s attempt to hush him was half-hearted. He wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say.

‘John returns from Afghanistan, war veteran, decorated, injured. The good son.’ Sherlock paused. ‘He doesn’t have a place to stay in London. But you don’t offer to let him stay in your flat, do you? Though with your salary I expect you can afford quite a nice one. Not to mention, it would have been a bit empty after Clara left. But John’s too uptight for you, would insist that you stop drinking. You can’t have that, not then, not with Clara just gone; you need your drink. So you don’t offer. Yet you feel guilty about not giving him some sort of welcome, so you give him your phone. Pawn it off as a kind gesture, something he can be grateful to you for, but you wouldn’t have kept it for yourself, either. The engraving -- an unpleasant reminder of things that went wrong. And, I suspect, you wanted a newer model for yourself. So, second-hand gift, but expensive gift. John can’t complain about you not giving him a place to sleep, not when he’s using your phone and the last six months of the phone plan.’

‘Sherlock—’

‘I was wrong about one thing, though,’ Sherlock said to Harry, ignoring John. ‘I thought you wanted him to keep in touch with _you_. But it’s the other way around. You want to be able to keep in touch with _him._ You want him at your beck and call. You give him a nice phone, and he can’t make excuses to not talk to you. But you haven’t used it as much as you thought you would.’ He looked Harry up and down. She appeared too stunned to speak. He narrowed his eyes, looked more closely at her, pushed himself away from the table and circled around her, examining her closely. ‘New clothes. Expensive, too. You say you’ve been sober for almost fifty days. I’d put it closer to forty. You still have that desperate look in your eyes. And it’s Friday night. Need a companion, then? Someone to keep you from drinking tonight? Sponsor not available? So you text John, whom you haven’t talked to in several months. Must be your new girlfriend is out of town, too.’

‘Boyfriend,’ John interrupted.

‘What?’ Sherlock cocked his head and looked to John for an explanation.

‘Not a new girlfriend. A new _boyfriend_.’ John threw his arms up in frustration. ‘Don’t ask me, Sherlock. I can’t keep it straight.’

‘No pun intended, I’m sure,’ Sherlock smirked.

‘What?’

‘You said, “I can’t keep it straight, either.” Referring to whether your sister is currently dating men or women. Not that you’re on the straight and narrow, either. But quite the Freudian slip, if you ask me.’

John sighed. ‘No comment,’ he said. ‘You’re really impossible, Sherlock.’ He looked towards Harry, to see how she was taking things. ‘It wasn’t intentional,’ he said pleadingly.

‘And you _live_ with him?’ Harry asked. ‘You put up with this all the time? You don’t deserve this, John.’

‘He lives with me because his family wouldn’t take him in,’ Sherlock said.

‘I don’t see you complaining about John being here!’ Harry said, almost in a shout. ‘You like having a doctor around, don’t you? Someone to get you into the morgue, make your little enterprise look _legitimate._ I wouldn’t be surprised, either, if you like having a man at your side who can wield a gun.’

‘I don’t have a gun anymore,’ John lied. ‘I’m just his doctor.’

‘Dual diagnosis,’ Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing at Harry. He refused to back down. ‘She likes to shock, doesn’t she, John? Always pushing people away and then complaining that no one loves her. Intentionally setting others up for failure where she is concerned. Personality disorder and alcohol dependence. No wonder you avoid her, John. You can never win with her, can you? Someone else is always to blame.’

‘What are you saying?’ Harry cried. ‘You don’t know a _thing_ about me!’

‘Oh, don’t I?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I know you have a drinking problem. I know you work in philanthropy – fundraising, perhaps? Gift of gab, stylish, persuasive when you want to be; helps you professionally, even though your personal life is a mess. You just got a new job—a job that pays well, from the look of your shoes and your makeup—’ But before he could open his mouth to say more, John interrupted both of them.

‘Hold on, you two,’ John said. ‘Sherlock, do we _have_ to do this tonight?’

‘I can deduce your sister any time you like,’ Sherlock said smoothly. ‘But preferably on her time, not mine. And we _still_ haven’t left for the morgue.’

But Harry had already risen. ‘I’ll come back when I’m invited,’ she said imperiously. ‘I’m certainly not going to waste another minute on this. John, you can judge for yourself. But someday you are going to have to choose whether to listen to _him_ ’ – she pointed at Sherlock. ‘—or to your sister.’ She extended her hand to Sherlock. ‘I can’t say it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes, despite initial appearances.’ She looked to John, then back to Sherlock. ‘But then again, we’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘I don’t believe we have,’ Sherlock said. ‘I have quite the memory for faces, _Harriet_.’

‘Yes, we have,’ Harry said, smiling brightly at him, then at John. ‘My memory doesn’t fail me when it comes to time spent in rehab. I hated every minute there.’ She turned to John. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’ John asked, more puzzled than ever. ‘You mean you two have _met_ before?’

‘We have,’ Harry said smugly. She picked up her purse and coat, tied a silk scarf around her slender neck. ‘Blakely House. Eight, almost nine years ago. You remember _now_ , don’t you, Sherlock?’ Sherlock looked at her blankly; only his nostrils twitched. She smiled again, that ingratiating smile that John hated. ‘But now I must be going. You two will have a lot to talk about, I imagine.’ Harry threw her head back and laughed. As she passed them on her way out, John could smell her perfume: green mangos and musk rose. Brilliants hung from her ears, sparkling in the low light of the kitchen. Her heels tapped on the steps as she made her way down to the door.

John turned to Sherlock, but Sherlock had pulled on his coat.

‘The _morgue,_ John,’ Sherlock urged. ‘‘I’ll explain later. There’s no time to lose!’ His voice was quick and light; elated, buzzed, brilliant -- Sherlock at his most Sherlock-like.

And John had to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to songstersmiscellany and to syncsister for their encouragement to keep working on this fic. It's been brewing in the back of my head and I have a few more scenes written, but this one is finished and is the one that comes next, so here it is.


	11. Letters and propositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork comes from Khorazir, who envisioned Sherlock's cousin as an artist, and even completed sketches that would serve as model for more complex canvasses, later on.  
> Khorazir's original art is here:  
> [Khorazir's original website](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/30738829459/emmadelosnardos-khorazir-georginas-sketch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are returning to the story here, don't overlook a newly inserted ch. 9 that was created at the same time as this section.

2.4.10

Georgina:

I don’t know why you never answer my emails. I know you’ve read them – don’t think I’m above entering your computer system – but you never write back except via post. A pity, when you’re the only one I’d like to hear from these days.

Writing by hand is so tedious. I’ve borrowed a viola and I played it for three hours today – Schubert, Brahms, Hindemith – and my fingers are stiff from having to reach so far. Don’t tell me I’m whinging; you know what it’s like to hold a pencil for hours on end. Now imagine holding a heavier and larger pencil, for the same amount of time and effort, and you’ll know what it is like to go from a violin to a viola.

Of course you may show my portrait in whatever gallery you wish. Let me know if you’re looking for representation here in London; I’ve become extensively acquainted with the London gallery scene following a case involving a false Vermeer.

As my hand is tired, I must bid adieu, fair cuz, adieu.

~Sherlock

P.S. I found the army doctor.

 

* * *

 

8 April 2010

Sherlock:

My health is fine, thank you for asking. And yours?

Thanks for the permission to show your painting. There’s a gallery in London that’s interested in it, but it’s not anywhere near the kind of places you must be working for now. A false Vermeer? I didn’t know that anyone was still trying to pull off copies of the Great Masters. They almost always get caught, these days. Have you been following the news about the da Vinci Principessa? Might be worth looking in to, if you’re specialising in art theft these days. Are you?

What do you mean you found the army doctor? I had to go look at the letters you sent me when you were in rehab to remember the whole story. Is it the same person? How did you find him? Is this good news?

Eagerly awaiting another instalment in the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, London Detective.

~G.

* * *

 

20.4.10

Georgina:

Indeed he is one and the same, Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He has a plate in his shoulder and a psychosomatic injury in his leg, and he suffers from nightmares, but otherwise he’s not much changed.

I am not particularly keen on investigating art theft, but I’m not so well known that I can refuse to accept commissions at this point. But in fact the false Vermeer was connected to a criminal ring I was trailing; the painting was incidental to the case as a whole, but I thought the anecdote might amuse you. My usual work (if you can call it that – it’s still terribly touch-and-go) is as a consultant to the Met Police’s homicide division.

 ~SH

 

 

* * *

 st of the Merry Month of May

Sherlock:

Thank you for your postcard. In return, have this one of Edgar Allan. Happy May Day!

(I chose it for you because I remember you correcting my pronunciation of ‘Amontillado’ on some holiday visit years ago. You were quite adamant that I understand that the double-L is pronounced as a ‘Y’ in Spanish. You will be happy to know that since then, I have always pronounced ‘tortilla’ and ‘llama’ correctly.)

I am disappointed that you didn’t tell me that the army doctor was your assistant. Have you kept in touch with him all these years without telling me? Or did you meet again? Don’t keep me in suspense.

~Georgie

 

* * *

 Georgie:

There was no danger this time, as John was in New Zealand these past few weeks, but as the man in question also happens to be my flatmate, I kindly ask that you refrain from writing any speculations on the backs of postcards that might be easily read by whoever fetches the post.

But I have always liked that photograph of Poe. Thank you for remembering that.

Yes, John Watson is my flatmate. Does this surprise you? It still surprises me, at times. He arrived in October and I half expected him to not come back from NZ. However, it seems that the ‘time off’ he sought was in regards to his girlfriend, Sarah, and not to me. This is rather a new experience. What would you suggest?

  ~Sherlock

 

* * *

 

12th of May

Sherlock:

I am quite touched that you would ask me for advice about your flatmate (may I call him John?). But I don’t know exactly how to advise you. Can you give me more information? It’s a bit ridiculous for me to be playing at being a detective when there is a far superior one in the family.

I am guessing you are looking for advice about friendship here? And not love? Otherwise, that might be some unnecessary anguish if John is dating women. (But you wouldn’t know anything about purposeless suffering, now would you? WOULD YOU??) And that would be assuming that you sought him out on purpose and assuming that you feel the same way about him now as you did then. But I really have no idea what you feel, now. It has been a long time – seven years?

I’m coming down to London at the end of the month for some tests. I’d like it if we can see each other then. It hasn’t been seven years, but it almost feels like it has been. And then you can tell me more about John, and I can answer your questions as best I can. (Really? Me? You’re asking _me_ for advice?).

One more thing. ‘Death and the Virgin’ will be showing at the Rutherford Gallery in Mayfair until the end of the summer. I hope that you can find time to stop by there and see it for yourself. Maybe take your flatmate, too. (WINK WINK.)

~~Gigi

 

 

* * *

20.5.10

Georgina:

A man who dates women may also date men. The same applies to fucking.

Framed as a logical proposition: (Ignore for the moment the female equivalent forms; of course I know that women may fuck women, etc., but those are not the relevant examples here. And please also ignore the fact that persons may very well have a sexual orientation without actually fucking anybody, e.g., virgins.)

  * _Premise:_ John fucks women.
  * _Premise_ : A man who only fucks men is homosexual.
  * _Conclusion:_ John is not homosexual. 



_Query:_ Can we also conclude, because John is not homosexual, that John does not fuck men?

 _Answer:_ No. Although we know that John is not homosexual, this does not preclude him from fucking men in addition to women. Consider this second proposition:

  * _Premise:_ John fucks women.
  * _Premise:_ A man who fucks both men and women is bisexual.



_Query:_ Is John bisexual?

 _Answer_ : One cannot draw a conclusion from these data.

And we are back where we started, G.

Advice?

~Sherlock

* * *

25 May ‘10

Sherlock:

We are meeting in person to discuss this. I’ll call your mobile. Arriving in London on the 30th.

Georgie


	12. Mnemosyne

It was a late night, a bottle of wine at Angelo’s followed by double shots of Glenfiddich back at the flat, when a half-drunk Sherlock told John about Freud’s quest to illuminate the empty spaces of memory, to put a name to the tenebrous events that his patients would not remember. Trauma formed lacunae in the memories of Freud’s patients, Sherlock said, but psychic pain embodied itself as a tingling in the thigh, a twitch in the eye, an obsession with clocks, a fear of rats. But there was a solution ( _Of course there was a solution!_ ): to speak the pain, to name the original sin, would cure the hysterical body. 

Sherlock rattled off so many facts like these in the warm drunken hours before sleep that it didn’t occur to John until much later that Sherlock might be speaking of him.

The problem now was that, as his leg healed, John began to remember things. The smell of his mother’s hairspray, the sound of Harry’s whines; the soft cotton of his sheets between his thumb and his forefinger on the nights when he would wait up in his bed for his mother to come home. He ordered new sheets, after he recalled that last detail. Microfiber didn’t wear like cotton, didn’t pill in the same way--smelled different, too. He tried to remember if he had ever felt Sherlock’s sheets, on those nights when Sherlock was too exhausted to get into bed by himself and John had to drag him from the sofa to his bedroom. Did Sherlock use a top sheet or just a quilt? Did he ever make his bed, between cases? Was it a double or a queen-sized bed that Sherlock had? John wished he could remember.

John focused on memorizing and memorializing Sherlock in the hope that the minutiae of life at Baker Street would obscure the other memories that had begun to return to him. He sought a love obsession to displace the discomfort of the hate and helplessness that his therapy sessions revealed to him. Recording Sherlock’s cases, their life together, he could almost forget that there had been anything before this precious Now.

He hated his mother. _Hate_ was indeed the right word; if anything, hate was not strong enough. He hated, despised, disavowed, recoiled from his mother. What did that make him, he wondered? The bad son. The only son.

A normal son, Ella said.

He thought he had better reasons than most people to hate. If everyone hated their mothers, then that meant--what could that mean? That everyone’s mother was as disinterested and neglectful as his own? That everyone's mother left the home for weeks on end, left her small children to fend for themselves while his father worked the night shift? That everyone’s mother said she wished she had never been one in the first place?

Idly, John wondered about Sherlock’s mother. Judging from Sherlock and his brother, he imagined her as aloof, articulate, with a touch of cruelty about her, even. An ice queen. That would explain Sherlock’s standoffishness, wouldn’t it? He thought she might be dead, since Sherlock never spoke of her. But it might be just as likely that Sherlock was keeping his mother from John, as he had once kept Mycroft from him.

Another night, over another bottle of wine--Montepulciano, John remembered the grape--Sherlock told him about his mother.

‘Mamá was a pianist,’ Sherlock said as an introduction, as if that explained everything.

John had asked if he had any photos. And Sherlock had pulled out a small leather album from a lower shelf and shown John the photographs of Violeta in London, in Seville, in New York, in Siena.

‘Did you play together?’ John asked. There was a hard line to Sherlock’s chin that made John wonder.

‘For a time,’ Sherlock answered. ‘Until she found other students to occupy her time.’ His mouth twitched.

‘What was she like?’ John pressed. Sherlock looked up at him sharply, the album spread in front of him on the coffee table. His eyes were wide, shining, and John thought he had never looked more hesitant.

‘What was she _like_?’ Sherlock repeated. ‘She was -- splendid. In a word. Intelligent. Intense.’ He paused. ‘She didn’t care about convention. She was like me. She lived for the music.’

There was a story there, John suspected; he had heard Sherlock mention his musical career before, but he had assumed that Sherlock had given it up for detective work.

‘Like you live for your cases,’ John pointed out.

‘No,’ Sherlock corrected him, his jaw firm and his shoulders tight. He sat back in the armchair and turned his neck to look away. ‘She lived for music, like I lived for music.’

‘Huh,’ John said. He could see Sherlock’s profile outlined against the kitchen doorway, the scruff of two days illuminated by the backlight. ‘Your mother -- she passed away, right?’

Sherlock snorted, shifting his hips in the chair. ‘Look when the photos end; I’m still a child.’

John looked at the page that Sherlock opened before him. There was a boy with flyaway hair and wide-set blue eyes standing beside a tall woman in black. The boy was looking away from the camera, a frown on his face. The woman had the same wide-set eyes, but her face was rounder and softer than the boy’s, and she smiled broadly at the camera.

‘She died when I was twelve,’ Sherlock said, looking up at John under his lashes.

‘I’m sorry,’ John said with sincerity.

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Sherlock laughed, a trace of bitterness in his voice, and took a sip of wine.

‘I mean--’ John corrected himself, ‘it must have been difficult, losing your mother so young.’

Sherlock didn’t reply. He held the wine glass up to his face, examined the deep red liquid.

‘There’s a case in Wales that I’ve been asked to consult for,’ Sherlock said next. ‘There’s no rush; it’s a cold case. I thought I’d catch a train up to Cardiff this weekend or next.’ He caught John’s gaze. ‘Can you come?’

‘To Cardiff?’ John was a bit taken aback at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘This weekend? No, I told Mike I’d stop by and feed his cat while he’s visiting his parents in Hastings.’

Sherlock nodded, then sat back in the chair. ‘Next weekend, then,’ he said.

‘Next weekend,’ John repeated.

‘She was having an affair,’ Sherlock said suddenly. His leg began to shake in the St. Vitus’ dance of the highly strung.

‘Who?’ John asked, confused.

‘My mother. When she died. That’s why I didn’t play much music with her.’

‘Because she died?’ John nearly knocked the glass over as he set it down next to Sherlock’s.

‘No, John. Do keep up.’ Sherlock glared at him. ‘She fell in love with one of her students. He went to the conservatory in London and she took to spending her weekends in the city. I was away at school by that time, so it’s not likely I would have seen much of her anyway.’

‘How did she die?’ John asked, not quite sure what else to say; best stick to questions that Sherlock might be willing to answer. Death was, as a general principle, a subject that Sherlock rarely avoided.

‘Car crash. New Year’s Eve.’

‘That’s--’ John struggled for the right word. ‘That’--terrible. And you were how old?’

‘Twelve. Mycroft was nineteen. Another?’ Sherlock pointed to John’s empty glass.

‘Not yet, thanks,’ John said, frowning.

John was surprised by what he was learning about Sherlock’s mother. He had imagined her differently; more in control? More certain of things? It should not surprise him that she was complicated, he thought -- everything about the Holmes brothers was complicated, after all -- but it did surprise him that Sherlock would share this with him, now.

‘I went with her to Italy one summer,’ Sherlock was saying. ‘We stayed near Siena, actually, where this wine is from. She let me drink the wine there, too,’ he said, laughing softly.

‘How old were you again?’ John asked.

‘Eleven, twelve? Enabler of vices, was my mother.’

‘A sip of wine can’t harm anyone,’ John pointed out.

‘Not just the wine,’ Sherlock said. ‘Though it might have been better if that was all it was.’

‘A _sip,_ I said. Not a habit. There’s Harry, after all,’ John said, confused by Sherlock’s words. What else, besides wine, had his mother permitted him?

‘Don’t look so aghast,’ Sherlock said, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. ‘I didn’t mean the drugs. Those came later, much later, after she died. I just meant -- there were certain people who thought my mother was a bad influence on me.’

‘Mycroft?’ John asked.

Sherlock hummed in assent. ‘Yes, and our father. He didn’t want me to go to Italy with her that summer. But he didn’t want to have me to himself, either. And sending me back to Spain was out of the question.’ He slowly turned the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. His lips were stained purple and John thought of saying something, of teasing Sherlock for it, but he didn’t want to interrupt the unusual course of Sherlock’s conversation.

If they drank any more, John thought, he’d ruin his chances at a good night’s sleep. He knew what would happen then, for it had happened before: they would finish the bottle together, and John would head up to bed for a fitful sleep, and he’d awaken several hours later to the sound of Sherlock’s violin in the main room of the flat. He might trudge downstairs to berate Sherlock for the noise, only to be told that he had known what he was getting into when he signed up to be Sherlock’s flatmate. Then Sherlock might give an impromptu lesson on Ravel’s use of _col legno_ and _pizzicato_ , or would expound on the structure of Beethoven’s late string quartets. Or John might not go downstairs at all, but instead roll over in bed and search for his missing earplugs under the covers, and spend a few minutes listening to one Bach sonata or another before falling asleep again.

‘Time for another glass, then?’ Sherlock was asking in his low voice.

John stared at Sherlock’s neck, at the open dip where his top buttons were undone. There was something luxurious about those open buttons, the elegant carelessness of one’s appearance that only the beautiful can afford. But John rarely saw Sherlock relaxed as he was now, sipping wine and lying back on the armchair with his legs propped up on the coffee table. John wanted it to be like this, always: this conversation, this sense of understated ease in each other’s company.

‘So--Spain? When did you go to Spain?’ John asked.

Sherlock abruptly stood up and tucked his shirt into his trousers. He began to pace around the room, moving his wine glass from one hand to the other.

‘I’m trying to decide something,’ Sherlock said. ‘Perhaps you can assist me.’

‘What’s that?’ John said, straining his neck to follow Sherlock’s erratic steps. ‘How much longer are we going to do this, John?’ Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at John. A lock of hair fell over his forehead and he swept it back with one hand. ‘How much longer are we going to trade our pathetic stories of childhood in the expectation that that is what friends must do? How much longer are we --’

‘Not any longer, if that’s how you feel about it,’ John said with irritation.

Sherlock carried on, gesticulating with his hands. ‘Are we going to keep sharing confidences, or can we just get to the point?’

‘I didn’t think this was so _burdensome_ to you, to tell me about your family,’ John said snappishly. ‘We didn’t need to talk about it, if you didn’t want to. You could have just said so.’ He leaned back in his seat as Sherlock came towards him--too quickly, too close--and trapped John against the sofa with his hands on either side of John’s shoulders. John turned his head, looking away from Sherlock.

‘I _am_ saying so,’ Sherlock responded. He was so close that John could feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. ‘I’m saying that all this talk of family is getting tedious. Especially when it’s just a precursor to something else.’

‘Oh yeah?’ John said, still angry. He would _not_ look at Sherlock, he would _not_ turn his head... ‘Mind letting me in on your _something else_ , Sherlock?’

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed the corner of John’s mouth.

He stopped there and held his lips against John’s, and waited. It was not a kiss so much as the steady presence of one mouth against another, a passive yet expectant gesture.

John breathed in sharply through his nose. If he wanted to speak now and ask for an explanation, he’d have to pull away from Sherlock, and he didn’t want to pull away. So he grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and drew him closer, kissing him back. John felt an ache in his chest, a surge of happiness beneath the ribs at the knowledge that Sherlock was kissing _him,_ that _he_ was the one that Sherlock wanted _._

Their first kisses were light and sweet, wine-scented and loose-limbed. Sherlock knelt on his knees and held John’s face between his hands, his body carefully elevated above John’s lap. He kissed John gently, his earlier forthrightness subsumed by a new hesitance. John smelled the citrus of Sherlock’s shampoo and the wine on his breath as Sherlock kissed his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his temples, exploring John’s entire face with his mouth.

‘Sherlock--’ John began.

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock said, his mouth against John’s temple. ‘Shut _up_ , John.’ He ran his hands down John’s chest, searching for the buttons at the top of John’s shirt.

‘Damn it,’ Sherlock said. ‘Your _jumper._ ’

‘Hold on,’ John said, pushing Sherlock’s hands away.  

‘It’s in the way,’ Sherlock said, breathless. ‘Take it _off_.’

‘No, it’s not,’ John said. ‘I won’t.’ he looked up at his friend. ‘What’s this about, Sherlock?’

‘Spare me the discussion about my _motives_ ,’ Sherlock said. ‘For once, don’t be so predictable.’ John raised an eyebrow.

‘I can’t even ask you what you’re doing? Not when you pin me against the sofa and start kissing me? I think I at least have a right to know what your intentions are.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘My _intentions,_ John? What do you want me to say, that they are _honourable_? Because they most certainly are not.’

‘And yet you won’t even tell me what they are,’ John said, extricating himself from under Sherlock’s long limbs, rolling onto the other end of the sofa. Sherlock sat down abruptly at his side. The cushions bounced as he hugged his knees to his chest.

‘Not hard to deduce,’ Sherlock said. ‘Even for you.’ He turned his head to look at John. ‘What do you think I do when I go out at night and there’s no case on?’

John blinked. ‘You go to the dojo, some nights,’ he said. He did not want to be drawn into Sherlock’s diversion, into a conversation about Sherlock’s fighting techniques or the underground betting system or the length of time it takes to heal a stress fracture in the wrist. These things could all come up, more likely than not, once Sherlock began to speak of something else.

Sherlock sighed. ‘Yes, the dojo, we both know about the dojo. Do try a little harder, John. Use your imagination. Where does a man who likes men go, late at night? Even you can figure out this one.’

‘What does this have to do with you and me?’ John asked, fearing Sherlock’s answer even as he asked the question. ‘I don’t care where you’ve spent the night in the past, Sherlock, as long as this is where you want to be _right now_.’

‘You’re lying,’ Sherlock said bluntly. ‘If I told you that I was with someone last night, would you really want to have sex with me now?’

John shifted in the sofa. ‘First, I don’t believe you.’ He clenched his fists at his sides and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘You’re just saying that to rile me up. I know you were here all last night. You’re bluffing to see how I respond.’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. ‘But no, I wouldn’t have sex with you now, _if_ you were telling me those things,’ he admitted. ‘But not for the reasons you think. Not because it’s dangerous--though it _is_ dangerous, Sherlock, and I wouldn’t want to think that you’re putting yourself in any more risk than you already do--and not because I’m jealous. You’re a grown man, you can do what you want. But _I_ can’t do that. I can’t do something casual with you. I can’t sleep with you one night, and someone else the next. If we try this, I have to know that you mean it, too.’

Sherlock blinked twice, then stood and strode across the room, looking for his violin. He found the case next to the bookshelf, under a pile of forensics journals. He pulled it out and laid it on the coffee table in front of John.

‘A most unfortunate and narrow-minded conclusion, John,’ he said, opening the violin case and taking out the bow. ‘I had hoped you would be less conventional in your approach. His mouth was tight and his smile was forced. ‘But as I can’t give you what you’re looking for,’ he said briskly, ‘we had best forget what happened here tonight.’ He passed the rosin over the bow several times, then drew the violin out of its case.

‘What shall it be, then? Mendelssohn, as usual? Or a little night music for Mnemosyne?’

‘For who?’ John said, angered by Sherlock’s flippancy.

‘For _whom,_ ’ Sherlock corrected. ‘A song for forgetfulness, John. For the muse of memory.’

‘I’ve had it!’ John said, standing up. ‘Play a song for your self, Sherlock. I’m going up to bed.’

‘Ah, so you _won’t_ forget, will you?’ Sherlock said. ‘I had hoped that things could be as they were.’ He began to tune his instrument, turning his back towards John.

‘I bloody well _won’t_ forget,’ John said.

His feet were heavy on the stairs, and no sleep came.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. This chapter took me much longer to write than I had expected. There's just one more left, I think, before I finish this story and begin to revise 'Pax Americana.' I published Pax around this time last year, as a holiday story, and as I have been meaning to revise it for a long time, I hope that the Christmas season will inspire me to keep on track.


	13. Cicada nocturna

It wasn’t that John thought that sharing a bed with Sherlock was a good idea; in fact, he had protested when Sherlock brought them to the run-down inn fifteen miles outside of Cardiff, had insisted that they return to the city for the evening. But Sherlock argued that it was better for them to stay near the mill, so they could poke around the property at night -- something about needing to see if the full moon provided sufficient light (Sufficient for what? John had asked) -- and John couldn’t argue with that. He also couldn’t argue with the owner’s prim declaration that nothing was available but a double bed, and didn’t they know it was the fly fishing opener that weekend, and they were lucky there had been a cancellation?

‘So you didn’t think it was a good idea,’ said Ella. ‘Just so I understand things clearly,’ she added.

‘That would be one of us, then’ John said. ‘No, I didn’t think it was a good idea. But with Sherlock, things -- happen.’ He shifted in his chair, leaned his chin into his hand. He paused, and Ella looked expectantly at him.

‘Like the kiss?’ she asked.

John sighed. ‘Yes, that too,’ he admitted. ‘That was one of those things that just...happen, around Sherlock. I guess you could say.’

‘A kiss doesn’t just happen,’ Ella said. ‘Someone has to make it happen.’

John exhaled loudly. ‘Yes. That was Sherlock. Making things happen.’

‘You feel let down,’ Ella said. ‘You wanted more.’

‘Bloody right I was let down!’ John said loudly. ‘Biggest tease I know.’ He pressed his fingers to the crease in his forehead, his hand shaking. ‘But that’s pretty much sums it up. Our friendship, our relationship, whatever you want to call it. Relationship, then,’ he corrected, upon seeing Ella’s face. ‘Me being let down by Sherlock.’

‘And that’s something you’re familiar with,’ she pointed out. ‘The feeling of being let down. By your mother, your father, Harry.’ She spoke softly, as she always did when she brought up his family.

‘Do you know what Sherlock would say if you said that to him? If you switched the topic to his parents when he was talking about some bloke he wanted to pull? He’d tell you you were being obvious, that your analysis was perfectly sound, but surely you could go deeper.’ John usually looked away when he spoke, but he looked Ella straight in the eyes as he paraphrased Sherlock.

‘Luckily for Sherlock, he’s not the patient here,’ Ella said. ‘But you’re annoyed that I made the connection to your family. You wanted to talk about Sherlock, not about them.’

‘Exactly,’ John grumbled, folding his arms in front of his chest.

It was going to be one of those sessions, then, when he was looking for something from Ella that she couldn’t (or wouldn’t, he suspected) give him, and she would push and prod at him until he was nearly as frustrated with her as he was with whatever topic he had brought to the session. She told John that he should express his anger more, that the panic attacks might be linked to unexpressed aggression, and hypothesized outloud that he had joined the army because it was a socially acceptable way to channel his rage.

‘And it makes you angry that I’m not letting you do that,’ she said.

‘I’m not angry,’ John said in a tone that belied his words. ‘Or, that is,’ he clarified, ‘I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at him.‘ He looked at the floor, out the windows, at the pictures on the wall.

‘You’re angry because -- let me make sure I understand the whole story -- because you went with him on a case to Wales, and there weren’t enough rooms available at the inn, and you had to share with him. Which might not have been such a problem, otherwise -- you’d done it before, on that case with the hound -- but he had kissed you, and then told you he didn’t want a relationship. Is that it?’

‘Yep,’ John said curtly. ‘But it wasn’t just sharing a room. It was sharing a bed.’ He kicked a leg back and forth, back and forth, and wished that he could kick something for real.

‘And there was nothing else available?’ She looked at him over the rims of her glasses.

‘I would have had to drive back to Cardiff,’ John said.

‘Why couldn’t you do that?’

John looked away, shaking his head. There was a hard line to his jaw, tension in his hunched shoulders. ‘Didn’t seem worth it, at the time,’ he said.

‘So you stayed, knowing that you would have to share a bed with him. Knowing that things were tense between the two of you.’

‘I guess I thought -- you know -- that we could talk. Or something.’

‘And did you? Talk?’ she asked gently. ‘Or something?’

‘Certainly not that.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘And we talked, a bit. I don’t remember everything we said.’ His hands began to shake, tremor returned to them.

‘Can you try to tell me?’ she asked, still in that gentle tone.  
_____________________________________________

They had spent a couple of hours tramping around the mill in the dark so that Sherlock could observe how the moonlight illuminated the old looms. It was dank and cold inside the building, smelled of dust and grease and wool, and by the time they returned to the inn, John was chilled to the bone. Sherlock had barely said a word to him all evening, and once they reached their room Sherlock went straight to the computer to upload the photographs he had taken at the mill.

It was with relief that John discovered that the lionpaw bathtub, while old, was wide and deep, and there was ample hot water for a bath. He had just stripped and prepared to climb in when he heard Sherlock’s mobile ring in the other room. The water was a touch warmer than John preferred, and he had to lower himself slowly into the tub, waiting until his body got used to the temperature before submerging himself entirely. As he settled himself, he heard the muffled sound of Sherlock’s voice answering the telephone. ‘Where?’ Sherlock said, then, ‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’ and something that sounded like ‘no time to lose,’ or perhaps ‘this time was close.’

John raised his arms and rested them on the side of the tub, his head lolling backwards. He watched the steam rise from the tub, tracked a tendril of vapor as it dispersed into air. When he was a child, he had taken baths like this, long baths that turned his fingers into prunes and softened his thoughts. He always slept well after a bath.

When the water grew cold, John drained the tub and toweled himself dry. He dressed quickly, pulling on his pyjama bottoms and an old T-shirt, and listened for Sherlock in the other room.

‘I’m finished,’ he called out as he opened the door. ‘All yours.’

Sherlock looked up at him from a cramped writing desk in the corner of the room. His face was blank, disinterested.

‘Sherlock?’ John asked. He was still a bit loose-limbed and muddle-headed from the bath. ‘It’s half-past two, I’m going to tuck up for the night.’ He scrubbed a towel against his head, catching a few dripping strands of hair. Sherlock stared at him. ‘You sleeping?’ John asked.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. He rose and walked across the room, shutting himself in the bathroom before John could ask him which side of the bed he preferred. John hung the damp towel over a chair, turned off the light, and crawled into bed, leaving Sherlock the side closest to the bathroom.

He woke up when Sherlock stubbed his toe on the bedpost and sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. ‘Puta madre!’ John heard him whisper. ‘Puta.’ In the dim light from the window John could see the outline of Sherlock’s body, the curve of his shoulders as Sherlock sat clutching his ribs and rocking forwards and back.

‘Are you OK?’ John asked. He reached for Sherlock’s leg, but Sherlock pulled away when John touched his knee.

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock snapped. He might have been trembling.

‘Must’ve hurt,’ John said. He waited for Sherlock to say something, but he didn’t. John sighed. ‘You coming in?’ he asked, rolling over to give Sherlock more room.

John heard the shuffle of sheets and quilts as Sherlock arranged himself under the covers. He curled up on one side, his back to John. Sherlock was still wearing his blue dressing gown, which struck John as uncharacteristically modest for him.

‘ ‘S that Lestrade?’ John asked.

‘What?’ Sherlock turned his head to look over at John, then rolled over so he was lying on his back. He clasped his hands together over his chest, cracked his knuckles, and looked up at the ceiling.

‘Was that Lestrade on the phone?’ John asked again.

Sherlock reached behind his head and adjusted his pillow, stalling. ‘No, that wasn’t Lestrade,’ Sherlock said carefully.

‘Mycroft?’ John guessed. Sherlock did not respond at first. John heard his breathing, shallow and erratic.

‘It doesn’t concern you,’ Sherlock said at last.

‘So you’re alright, then?’ John pulled the quilt more tightly around his neck. The air in the room was chilly and he remembered how cold he had been earlier, walking around the mill. He wanted to keep the warmth of the bathtub around him, wanted to burrow under the covers and push his head against Sherlock’s neck, wrap his arms around his thin shoulders, and sleep. He wanted that, but he was pretty sure Sherlock didn’t see things the same way, so he tucked the quilt around his body, and waited for the warmth to return to his bones.

‘Why wouldn’t I be alright?’ Sherlock snapped.

‘You seem a little...tense,’ John said.

‘Yes, I am tense. I just stubbed my toe and it hurts. Of course I feel tense.’

‘Sorry,’ John said. 'I thought it was something else. G’night, then.’ He heard Sherlock shifting, slipping under the covers at his side.

‘John,’ Sherlock said, once he was settled on his back. ‘What did you think I was upset about?’

‘I don’t know, Sherlock. Maybe the phone call from Mycroft? Or the case, maybe it’s not going as well as you hoped?’ John spoke to the ceiling. Next to him, Sherlock lay back, hands pressed together over his chest, perfectly still.

‘The case is going fine,’ Sherlock said in a snappish tone. ‘That’s not it. Why must you act like such an idiot?’

John blew out sharply. ‘There’s always us. Is that the problem? You, me.’

‘That’s not the problem, John.’ Sherlock rolled over, away from John. ‘Though it is a problem,’ he mumbled.

‘It’s a problem for me, yes,’ John said. ‘We could talk about us, Sherlock, if you don’t want to talk about that other thing. Whatever it was.’

‘That’s not what the call was about,’ Sherlock said. ‘It had nothing to do with you.’ His voice was hoarse to the point of breaking.

‘And that’s another problem, as far as I’m concerned,’ John continued, before Sherlock could tell him otherwise. ‘You shut me out except when you want something from me. You wanted a shag, so you told me about your mother--’

‘I--’ Sherlock began. John interrupted him.

‘Not because you wanted me to know about her, but because you wanted me to think you cared. You asked me how long we were going to tiptoe around the subject. Sex, you meant. Well, I’m ready to talk now, Sherlock. You got me into your bed tonight, didn’t you?’ John spoke slowly, deliberately, with bitterness in his voice. ‘Now I want to hear what you have to say.’ John waited, but Sherlock did not respond.

John shifted his attention to the night sounds, to the calls of frogs and cicadas in the cool spring night. Sherlock had told him once that some species of cicadas hibernated for thirteen years -- or was it seventeen? -- before finally emerging from the earth for one heady season of sap-sucking and sex. Was this the cicada spring, John wondered? If not, perhaps he had caught Sherlock mid-cycle, a hard, impervious shell of a man. Or, most terrible thought, maybe Sherlock had already molted and flown, leaving John nothing but a dry husk, identical to his form.

‘Can we not have this conversation now?’ Sherlock asked suddenly. ‘I know it may come as a surprise to you, John, but not all of us want to discuss our feelings at a moment’s notice.’

John shivered and looked over at Sherlock, who was curled into a ball at the far edge of the bed. John wondered if he had been mistaken, if there was something else going on, something besides the case in the mill and the precarious state of their friendship. Sherlock had been in a strop ever since the phone call, and it might have nothing to do with John, after all.

‘It’s something else, isn’t it, Sherlock?’ John asked tentatively, reaching out for Sherlock’s shoulder but pulling his hand away in time. Sherlock turned his head around and searched for John’s face in the low light.

‘Yes,’ he replied in a shaky voice. ‘Please, John -- don’t. Just -- don’t.’

John knew he was pleading for him to stop, pleading for things to go back to normal between the two of them. And there was something in Sherlock’s tone, the way his voice sounded as if he couldn’t get enough air, that made it very difficult for John to press onwards, then, and insist on an answer to why Sherlock had acted the way he did.

Instead, he reached over and grasped at Sherlock’s elbow, pulled at him so that Sherlock lay on his back again, staring upwards at the ceiling. John kept his hand curled around Sherlock’s arm and began to speak.

‘It was the phone call, wasn’t it?,’ he began, hoping that Sherlock would not pull away. ‘I’m sorry, something upset you, something that’s probably none of my business, and all I wanted to talk about was....’ He trailed off and took his hand back. ‘Let’s go to sleep now, Sherlock. I’m beat.’

‘John--’ Sherlock began. He turned and looked at John.

‘Yes?’ John asked expectantly.

‘Do you hear that?’ Sherlock asked, holding up one finger and cocking his head. ‘ _Cicadetta montana..._ ’

John felt his chest loosen and expand as Sherlock began to tell him, again, about the life-cycle of cicadas.


	14. Cicada diurna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--Selections from Plato’s _Phaedrus_.
> 
> *******************
> 
> PHAEDRUS: Once more, there are many more non-lovers than lovers; and if you choose the best of the lovers, you will not have many to choose from; but if from the non-lovers, the choice will be larger, and you will be far more likely to find among them a person who is worthy of your friendship.
> 
> ********************
> 
> SOCRATES: A lover of music like yourself ought surely to have heard the story of the grasshoppers, who are said to have been human beings in an age before the Muses. And when the Muses came and song appeared they were ravished with delight; and singing always, never thought of eating and drinking, until at last in their forgetfulness they died. And now they live again in the grasshoppers; and this is the return which the Muses make to them -- they neither hunger, nor thirst, but from the hour of their birth are always singing, and never eating or drinking; and when they die they go and inform the Muses in heaven who honours them on earth.

‘Oh, I know it all sounds very cozy,’ John said. ‘Sherlock telling me a bedtime story -- about insects, of course, thank God not about one of his cases--’

‘Do you really think it was “cozy”?’ Ella interrupted. She raised an eyebrow at him and he looked away. ‘Well, it might have been,’ John replied, ‘But I bet you know where I’m heading with all this.’ She hummed softly in affirmation.

‘You said you’re staying with Harry today,’ she reminded him. ‘Things really that bad?’ There was a dimple in her cheek, John noticed, and her whole face looked lighter, freer, when she smiled like that at him, jokingly.

John scratched his head. ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ he said. ‘It’s just temporary, until I figure out what to do.’

‘He must have really upset you,’ Ella observed.

‘How so?’ John asked calmly.

She gave him a nod before speaking. ‘You didn’t move out the first time you were kidnapped, working with him. You didn’t leave when you found the body parts in the fridge, or when he ruined half of your dates, or when he scared you on purpose on that case--’ She paused, trying to remember the details.

‘With the hound,’ he prompted her. ‘Or what we _thought_ was a hound.’ It had been a chimera in the end, an ordinary dog turned monstrous with the aid of a few GABA-inhibitors. The doctor knew the mechanisms of fear, was familiar with its neurochemical pathways as well as its subjective states. So, yes, he had been frightened, but the sensation was hardly new to him. And the relief, afterwards, when he learned that Sherlock was the man behind the curtain -- oh, such gratitude he had felt towards him! That gratitude, as much as his fear, was behind John’s anger. What right had Sherlock to deceive him in that way? And why was he so grateful that it had all been a trick of the light, why was he so relieved that Sherlock had, after all, remained in control, when that deception had made John look the fool? He felt angry at himself, then, that he still lapped at Sherlock’s hand when Sherlock had ignored him and baited him and starved him of attention and praise. It was not likely that Sherlock would change, either, but John didn’t know if he could forgive himself for these things.

‘What are you thinking now?’ Ella asked softly. ‘You have gone quiet.’

John swallowed tightly. ‘Thinking ‘bout Sherlock. About why I kept going back to him, even when -- even when --’ His voice broke and he pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could hold back the tears.

‘Do you have any ideas about why that might be the case?’ Ella asked. ‘Why you keep following that pattern with him?’

John clenched his fists and pushed himself up so that he sat upright in the chair. He looked away and tried to regain his composure; he was _not_ going to cry, not today, not when he needed his anger more than his tears.

‘Because I’m in love with him,’ John burst out in desperation.

She looked at him closely, thinking over her response.

‘That may be,’ she said slowly, patting at the braids in her hair. ‘But might it have started before that?’

‘Before I went daft over him, or before I met him?’ John asked.

‘Before you met him,’ Ella said. ‘There might have been others...’

* * *

 

Of course there were others; trauma and repetition, trauma and repetition, that’s how it went. There was always the impulse to repeat the abuse, to return to the scene of the crime (whatever Sherlock would have said about the matter). Afghanistan; a double hotel room in the countryside; 221B; a score of other places, other dates...And what choice did John really have? All these places, all these endless variations on the same theme, only to fail again -- and again and again -- and trying all the while to do something differently, to make things right. And John saw how things weren’t fixing themselves; no matter how many times he threw himself in front of a bullet, he couldn’t mend the original wound. No matter how many people he loved -- or shagged -- they couldn’t make up for the original absence. Was he fated, then, to go on this way, always falling into the same self-effacing, self-sacrificing role with his lovers and mates? Did he think they would leave him if he did not protect them from themselves? (Yes.) Did he think, in some small part of him, that he was above all desire, that he was ennobled because he served? (Yes.) _In arduis, fidelis._ (Yes.) He had been steadfast. He had served -- his country, his god (when he had still believed), his family, now Sherlock. And for what? What did he have to show for it, besides a wicked-looking scar, a dress uniform that was gathering dust, and a few impressive lines on his Vita? His hands were empty.

It could have been a second chance for him, coming home from Afghanistan; he could have taken the opportunity to rebuild his life, to find a mate, settle down. Superficially, living with Sherlock _had_ seemed like a new life, a cicada spring after the drabness of rehab and the monotony of the desert. But things were not as they seemed. He had followed Sherlock and he had ended up right back where he always was, giving himself to some who was too self-absorbed to appreciate the gift. His mother had been his first love-object, with her depression and alcoholism in his childhood; then his sister, taking on their mother’s symptoms once Gertie was dead. (Harry could keep their mother in mind, best, in the shimmering minutes of the second glass of wine; Gertie was closest to her then, almost as if she had never left, and Harry felt the warmth and satisfaction of love most strongly when staring at the bottom of that second glass. She had always been a maudlin drunk.) Now Sherlock was the object of John’s affections, and it had not gone any better this time around. (Small wonder.)

‘Do I have to do this again?’ John asked Ella, feeling weariness settle in his joints, a reminder that he had not slept well since the weekend, since Wales.

‘Do what?’ Ella asked, waiting. The afternoon light shone through the window and fell on her face, forcing her to shield her eyes with her hand to look at him.

‘The same old bloody thing,’ he said. ‘This -- _situation_ I’m in with Sherlock.’

‘What situation, exactly?’

‘I feel like it’s the same thing, all the time, my whole life. Falling in love with Sherlock is just the same as hoping that my mother will come back, as hoping that Harry will stop drinking.’ He turned away, starting to cry with rage and frustration. ‘I’m so _bloody_ sick of it!’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘I. Just. Want. It. To. End.’

He struggled to still the tremor in his arm. It would feel good to throw something, he thought, the way it had felt good to pound the wall of the hotel in Wales. But then he thought of Sherlock, and how Sherlock would get a hold of the gun when he was in a strop, or would spray paint the wall, or any number of visible and eccentric signs of ire. No one could mistake Sherlock’s anger for something else. John, on the other hand, hardly even knew the feeling of rage, so well had he disguised it with altruism and self-containment. He could calm others; himself he could not soothe, because he could not put the words to his own sorrow or rage.

And yet -- and yet -- he _had_ got angry at Sherlock, a few nights ago in Wales. That was what the whole session with Ella had been about, in one way or another -- John’s anger -- and still he was covering it up, making excuses for Sherlock and ignoring just how angry he had been at him.

John’s thoughts returned to the dozen petty intrusions and evasions that Sherlock had made during that case, from ‘forgetting’ to mention the trip until it was nearly impossible for John to get coverage at the surgery; to refusing to drive the half hour back to Cardiff to find a hotel with two beds; to hiding the subject of the phone call when it was bloody well obvious that Sherlock was in a fuss about something. And then, to top things off, Sherlock would not talk about _them,_ either, and had avoided John’s questions with a bedtime story about Welsh entomology.

John had let Sherlock’s deep voice lull him into a kind of half-sleep, populated with images of silver-green wings and throaty bird song, a sylvan world of cicadas and nightingales, until Sherlock’s speech wandered to Plato and John would have slipped utterly into his dreamworld at the mention of the philosopher, had he not heard Sherlock explain, as if he had thought it out many times before, that he was not certain but that he agreed with Phaedrus’ first speech, that friendship was best when not mixed with love.

Sherlock had moved quickly on from there, to consider the place of the cicada in Japanese art, to a long digression on the famous Art Nouveau café in Nantes, La Cigale, which he compared to a fashionable bar of the same name that he had frequented in Buenos Aires one antipodal summer.

But John had pricked his ears at the mention of love, felt the blood flow to his fingertips, then went still as Sherlock continued to wax upon the minutiae of cicadan lore.

‘Stop it,’ John said suddenly, interrupting Sherlock’s flow of speech.

‘Stop what?’ Sherlock asked, a bit astonished.

‘Stop all this,’ John said firmly. ‘If you want to talk about us, about friendship and love, or whatever nonsense you’re spewing, then _at least_ have the courtesy to do so when you know I’m awake for the conversation.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sherlock asked, turning over in bed to look at John. ‘I’m talking about cicadas. Or cicadae, if you prefer.’

‘Oh, go ahead, _deny_ it,’ John said sarcastically. ‘Pretend you don’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about, why don’t you. Make me out to be the mad one.’ Sherlock grimaced. ‘OK, then. Have it your way. If you’re going to talk about friendship and love, I have _absolutely no idea_ why I should think it’s about me. No idea, whatsoever. It’s not like I’m your _only friend_ or anything. I mean, how could I have _possibly_ mistaken what you said for idle chatter? Silly me, what was I thinking?’ There was a rare, dangerous edge to his voice.

John sat up and moved to the corner of the bed. Light was beginning to come through the windows -- had Sherlock really been talking for so long? Might have done; if anyone could entertain himself aloud for hours, it was Sherlock. And now the berk was silent, wouldn’t deign to respond to John. Typical. This was the last straw.

‘You know what, Sherlock?’ John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. ‘I’ve had it. I’m not settling for this any longer. You can let me know _right now_ if you want to talk about us _,_ about why you kissed me the other night. Otherwise, this is it.’

He stared at Sherlock, who by now had pushed himself up against the headboard, with none of his usual grace, and was running his fingers through his tangled hair. Sherlock blinked back at John, pulled at a strand of hair, and haplessly opened his mouth.

‘This ends here,’ John said. ‘Either you tell me what you want from me, tell me you want something more than our friendship, or I go back now.’ He stood, his stance wide and certain.

‘John--’ Sherlock began, ‘--I already discussed--’

John punched his fist against the nearby wall and Sherlock went quiet again.

‘We did _not_ already discuss this,’ John said, feeling a tingling in his ears that spread through his temples and his cheeks. ‘It doesn’t count if you have a conversation with me and I’m not there. Or if I’m asleep,’ he added.

‘You clearly weren’t asleep,’ Sherlock retorted, ‘If you heard me talking about the _Phaedrus._ ’

‘That’s _it,_ ’ John said, walking over to his suitcase. ‘You blew your chance, Sherlock.’ He flung the case open and rummaged through for his pants and trousers. As John crossed the room, he noticed how Sherlock’s gaze followed him, how he looked, for a brief moment, almost regretful, before his face returned to its habitual imperiousness.

Inside the loo, John dressed quickly, brushed his teeth and shaved before packing up his toiletries. He glanced at his watch -- it was not yet six, and he had no idea how he would get back to Cardiff. No matter. He’d figure things out somehow, go downstairs and ask the person at the front desk to ring him a car or point him towards a bus stop. He was a grown man and he could certainly make his way back to London by himself. The rest he would decide on later.

John looked at himself in the mirror. The overhead light was harsh and made his face look even more wrinkled and pock-marked than usual, but he thought the rest of his torso looked quite fit in just his undervest. He had begun to get back some of the muscle that he had lost in those fretful months after he was shot, when he couldn’t carry any weight on his shoulders and could barely open a jar of gherkins without assistance. It was so remarkable, he thought, that this was the same body he’d always had, that this same pile of flesh and blood and bones had taken him from Surrey to London to Afghanistan and back to London. And now here he was, in Wales, the same person that he always was, though the place was different. How had he lasted so long? How had his body knit itself back together, time and time again, after so many rips and rends? He knew the answer, medically speaking, and yet those scientific explanations did not account for the awe that he felt at his own unlikely embodiment.

He poked at the scar on his shoulder, ran his finger along the edge that demarcated touch and dullness. The numb patch of skin around the scar grew smaller over time as the dermal nerves regenerated and criss-crossed the knotted surface with errant sensation. It was not the same as before, not really, but nor did it hurt anymore, and he could stand the dullness as long as he could feel the occasional twitch of heat or pressure. The scar was evidence that he had let himself be touched by something exterior to himself; what similar proof could a man like Sherlock ever have, of letting the world in, of caring? John imagined Sherlock’s body as a pale, unblemished extension of skin, opaque and unyielding. For the first time in months he felt some pity for Sherlock.

So then. John had let himself be touched by Sherlock, and Sherlock had not reciprocated. And what of it? John had taken a risk, put himself in the line of fire -- nothing new, there -- and he would go on, as he always had. He was still young, after all, and straight-limbed and self-assured and competent. A good man, as his mother always said he would become; Sherlock could not take that from him. These things he had all counted, and there was so much else about him that Sherlock could not touch.

* * *

 

‘So what do you think you’ll do next?’ Ella asked.

John took a deep breath and rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward as he spoke.

‘I think I’ll go back to Baker Street,’ he said. ‘Only one of us can afford to be in a strop all of the time, and that’s Sherlock.’ He smiled at Ella, who smiled back at him.

‘You sound certain of that,’ she said, glancing at the clock behind him. They only had two minutes left in the session.

‘I _am_ certain,’ he said. ‘And I’m -- OK. OK about it. Really.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘Just needed to get some things out of my system. Know where I stand. Set my own terms.’

He rose from his chair and looked down at Ella as he made his way to the door. It was probably against the rules, but he held out his hand for her to shake. She took it and smiled at him again.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you next week?’

The sunlight had moved across the room and her face was in the shadow, but her eyes were bright as she looked up at him and released his hand.

‘Be well,’ was all she said.

'I will,' he replied. 'I really will.'

 

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This is the last chapter in the three-story arc that I began a year ago. Chronologically, _That Obscure Object_ comes before _Pax Americana_ and after _In Confidence_ , though I wrote them in a different order (PA, followed by IC and TOO). In the course of writing these stories, my views on Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have, of course, changed, as has my writing style.
> 
> I began the series with _Pax_ , wishing to write a standard romantic plot, with an over-the-top courtship and (for Sherlock) an exotic location (New York City, where I live), just to see if I could do it. In _Pax_ I developed a back story for Sherlock that I became quite fond of, one that involved a Spanish grandmother and a cycling Sherlock. I became so attached to this story, in fact, that I decided to draw it out in the next story in the series, _In Confidence_ , which takes places nine years previously and is set in the psychiatric hospital where Sherlock is undergoing drug treatment. I set myself the formal challenge, in _In Confidence_ , to tell the story using only case notes and other written documents (treatment summaries, emails, letters) that would be generated during treatment. Writing within such limits, I became more concise and less descriptive, a far cry from the (in retrospect) excessive style of _Pax_. When Chapbook (songstermiscellany) asked me to write about John and trauma, from a psychological perspectives, I began a series of short stories on my tumblr blog that fit within the same narrative universe and would eventually become the story that you just finished, That Obscure Object. It is meant to fill in the time between _In Confidence_ and _Pax Americana_ , the exhilarating yet bittersweet months when John and Sherlock become friends and partners. If you have not yet read PA, there you will find a resolution to their romance in that story. Sherlock finally comes to his senses, and John gets swept off his feet.
> 
> I have thought long and hard about whether to revise _Pax_ to fit my current understanding of the characters (and the craft of writing), or whether to leave it as is. For the present, I’m letting things be. _Pax_ still has the odd epithet that I dislike (oh fandom, you have taught me to beware the epithet!), there is the extravagantly emotional dialogue that I managed to get Sherlock and John to engage in, and I would change these things if I had the time. But I also want to move on. I want to write in shorter form, to write a wider range of stories and in different fandoms, too. And I have a dissertation to work on this semester, and all that that entails. So this chapter ends, for now, the most intensive writing project I have ever undertaken, so I can have time for another one (said dissertation).
> 
> I loved writing _Pax_ and its prequels, loved the people I met along the way, the kind readers who left me notes of encouragement and have reached out to me during the past year, people with similar interests and aesthetics as my own. I have found myself in the most vibrant virtual community that I have ever dreamed of, through the Sherlock fandom and the people I met through there. But writing these stories, and beginning a tumblr blog, I have struggled to balance my time as a ‘Sherlock’ fan and as a fan (as I have nearly always been) literature in general, and of art, film, and music. My blog has shifted from being a place where I primarily write about Sherlock and writing Sherlock fanfic, to the place where I post things that inspire me intellectually and artistically. It seems like it will continue to be less of Sherlock and more of the other things, as I move out of such an intense writing process. This is not a good-bye, but an explanation for the change. I feel enormously grateful that I have these things (art! music! literature!) in my life, and that I can share them with you. So, thank you, for reading along and reaching out and teaching me with your comments and experiences. I’ll be around.
> 
> My especial thanks to Chapbook (songstersmiscellany), who prompted this story, and to khorazir for the artwork, as well as moonblossom, syncsister, breathedout, roane, fennish_journal (frytha), persian-slipper, serissime, nympheline, adiprose, aderyn, professorfangirl, afrogeekgoddess, charliebravowhiskey, sherlockscarf, pennypaperbrain, and many other people who have been part of the writing process, in one way or another.


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